


Southern Discomfort: Cursed

by KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic



Series: Southern Discomfort [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Animal Sacrifice, Awkward Daryl, Discrimination, Emotional Smut (eventually), Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gang Related activities, Gen, Growing Up Together, Heavy Petting, Hoodoo, Horror, M/M, Minor Character Death, Moonshiners/Bootleggers, Paranormal, Pining, Rick is a nosy little shit, Shadow people, Shane is a mean shit half the time, Super slow burn Rickyl, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Voodoo, both in grammar and profanities, heavy use of very bad language, inaccurate portrayal of rituals, judgemental townspeople, supernatural/suspense, you will need tissues for the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 166,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Part 1 of 3)</p><p>When Rick is 8, he visits his family out in the middle of nowhere Georgia and gets lost in the woods. He stumbles upon something he isn’t supposed to see, and is saved by another little boy that gets him home safely. </p><p>AKA: the story where Daryl continuously keeps Rick from getting killed as they grow up, Rick is a nosy little shit who doesn't know boundaries, and Daryl's family practices a bastardized version of Folklore Hoodoo and New Orleans Haitian Vodou. </p><p>The Dixon Family and their associates use this practice to prosper their bootlegging business, but their rituals are corrupt and their actions anger the spirits they communicate with. The forest and town become cursed, and the horrible things the townspeople do in their every day lives makes everything worse. No one discovers the damning combination until it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wilderland

**Author's Note:**

> Ambitious for a first fic on here, I know, but this story has been looping in my head for a while, and I've been trying to write it out in little blurbs and I'm already at 10,000 words so I might as well commit to it.
> 
> I would like to emphasize right now that any and all portrayals of Vodou and Hoodoo in this story are not realistic and I kept it that way for a reason. The Dixon family are corrupt Vodou practitioners at best, my description of it being bastardized is the best I can express. They are supposed to be practicing it wrong, they will be angering the Lwa (Spirits that navigate between realms) and really kind of disrespecting the spirits all together. This will curse the town and everyone in it, although the evil things that the townsfolk do will only add fuel to the fire. It's going to be a mess, and I'm so excited to finish writing it! Anyway, I wanted to get all of that out so as not to offend anyone. It is made very clear in later chapters that they aren't respecting what should be peaceful spirits and are ruining the sacred practices. 
> 
> And although I am a serious Rickyl shipper, because those two dumb boys deserve to be happy, if you're looking for smut I can't promise you anything. Sorry to tease you if that's what you wanted out of this, but this story isn't about romance, it's about friendship. This is about doing what you believe is right, even when you've been raised to think otherwise. Originally it was going to be up in the air if they ever actually get together, but who am I kidding it'll happen. Just WAY down the line. **(EDIT: so things have changed, smut is now a thing in later chapters, tags to be added as I write them)**
> 
> Only other thing is this story takes place in Southern Georgia, closer to Savannah, I go into more detail about the area later but for this chapter just roll with it.

Rick never wanted to go to Georgia. Deep in the backwoods country where the only residents lived in scattered smatterings of old wealthy estates and run-down tin houses overgrown with the surrounding swamps. The forests were so thick you couldn't see 20 feet through the trees, and the sun was blocked out by the overlapping leaves and vines trailing through the woods like cobwebs. A person would’a circled the swamp twice before finding their bearings if they were lucky, and at just over eight years old Rick Grimes didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding his way back to his grandmother’s estate. 

Especially in the dark.

Tears blurred his vision as he tried to quiet his desperate whimpers in the suffocating darkness of the woods, keeping his back pressed against a giant old Live Oak as big around as his grandpappy’s toolshed, minding where he placed his feet along the edges of the bog. The swamp was still wet from the rain earlier that morning and he had lost one of his shoes to the mud already. The old oak’s thick sprawling arms reached across the forest and into the dark as far as Rick’s eyes could see, and a full moon sat low and fat and bright behind the branches. It was his only saving grace, being able to see where he was going in the darkness, but every inch of the forest looked the same. He was eight years old now, he wasn’t a kid anymore! He needed to stop crying and find his way back to the house. Huffing to himself, the sound echoing across the bog, Rick launched himself from his safe spot against the giant oak and started on his way through the forest again. 

Thorny branches and sticks tripped him and smacked across his face as Rick barreled through the forest, footsteps loud and crunching as he kept going in one straight direction. If he kept going in the same direction he would find the edge of the forest sooner or later. Sounds crashed all around him as he made his way through the dark; cicadas chorused by the thousands above his head, mosquitoes and swamp flies buzzed in his ears, birds and other creatures of the swamp sang their nighttime songs and war-cries, and all the while Rick’s heavy steps and hammering heartbeat mixed into the symphony. It was terrifying, hearing everything all at once and nothing at all as the sounds blurred into a white noise that would block out anything menacing that could be following him in the dark. And Rick felt like something was following him. 

_“Never be afraid of the dark,”_ his father would tell him. _“The only thing there is your fear, and it will only take hold of you if you believe it can.”_ Rick’s father was always saying things like that, things that sounded meaningful. His mother would roll her eyes sometimes, tell him maybe the things his father said would make sense when he was older. But Rick wasn’t stupid, he was old enough now, and thought maybe he just wouldn't ever understand the things his father told him. But right now those words were all that was running through his head.

“There’s nothing in the dark,” Rick whispered to himself as he sped up his pace, almost running through the dense swamp. “There’s nothing in the dark.” But even as his voice cracked around the words, his heart hammering against his ribcage, he wasn’t quite sure his father was right about this. Because Rick could feel something watching him, from the towering trees and overhead darkness that surrounded him, breathing cold on the back of his neck. “There’s nothing in the dark!” He couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t alone in the woods. 

Red and orange danced through the slits in the trees, something was there far ahead of him, and Rick couldn’t stop himself from speeding up into a flat out run. One shoe and one sock pounding against the damp swamp floor in reckless abandon as he made for the firelight in the distance. It had to be a fire, a clearing, a campsite or a bonfire but there had to be _people_ and Rick wasn’t going to stop until he broke through the tree barrier.

A dark figure barreled into his side just before he hit the tree line, the light from the fire dancing in licks along the bark of the trees that over-flowed the forest. Rick would have screamed if the wind hadn’t been knocked out of him as he hit the forest floor. Hard. With a weight pinning him down, and a dirt-stained hand covering his mouth as he tried to gasp for the breath that escaped his lungs. 

“Qui’ it!” A voice hissed next to his ear, high pitched and angry, and suddenly pale blue eyes were boring into his not inches from his face. “Ya gotta keep quiet!” The bright firelight from the clearing beyond the brush they hid in kept the other boy’s face dark, but his eyes were bright and scared and angry all at once, and Rick quieted his whimpers and held as still as he could. The other boy let out the slightest of nods and took his hand off Rick’s mouth, licking his lips nervously Rick could taste the mud and sweat from his hands. Trying to sit up, Rick let out another “oof!” as the boy pushed hard on his shoulders and slammed him back on the ground again. “Stay down!” he hissed at him again. “Don’ let ‘em see ya!” The boy looked over his shoulder toward the clearing, and it was then that Rick could see his face as the light danced across it in scattered flickers.

There were lines painted all over his face, tracing the contours of his cheeks and outlining the shape of his skull, dots strategically placed in areas to complete the design. Except for one, small dot beside his mouth that must have been a real mark on his face. Some of the lines were brown and sandy like the mud on the boy’s hands, and others were white like paint. But one very distinct line down the center of his forehead was as red as _blood_ , and it was still _wet_. His eyes zeroed back in on Rick and only then did the sound rush back to him; he could hear people talking and singing but couldn’t make out the words, the fire crackled and roared not far from where they lay on the ground, drums and sticks snapping and wind chimes filled the night air. But every other sound that had been plaguing Rick, the cicadas the mosquitoes the birds, were gone. The swamp was as silent as the grave.

“We gotta get ya outta here,” the boy whispered, tugging lightly on Rick’s shirt to get him to sit up, but staying hunched down behind the brush, so Rick mimicked his stance. 

“What’s going on?” Rick asked the boy, eyes finally straying from his face and the weird lines painted across it, and trying to look around the trees to the clearing. 

“Don’ look!” the boy almost yelled at him. Grabbing Rick’s entire head and covering his eyes with his hands, blocking the clearing with his body crouched in front of Rick. “Ya can’t look okay!?! I can get ya out but ya can’t look over there! If ya do ya’ll be cursed, and then I can’t help ya. No one will. Ya understan’ me?” Rick nodded and choked on the sobs that threatened to escape his throat, _cursed_ , it sounded so menacing and gruesome and _final_. No one can help you, _I can’t help ya. No one will._ Fear surged through him like ice, and all he wanted to do was _run_. 

“Okay,” the boy breathed after Rick stayed still for a minute, and Rick could feel him check the clearing over his shoulder again, but the boy didn’t turn his whole body to look. Maybe he couldn’t look at the clearing either. _Cursed_. “Okay,” the boy repeated, and moved his hands to Rick’s shoulders and guided him along the brush, both of them crouched down and slowly making their way towards a denser area of trees. All Rick wanted to do was keep his eyes closed. “Okay,” he breathed again, a slow mantra that Rick was starting to think was more for the boy’s reassurance than for Rick’s. They reached one of the bigger White Ash trees, and stood up behind it, the trunk large enough to block them both from whatever gathering lay beyond. “Okay,” the boy breathed for the hundredth time, but this time it was directed at Rick as those pale blue eyes sucked him in again. “Get on home, as fas’ as ya can.”

“I-I-” Rick stumbled over his words, breathed, swallowed, and squared his shoulders in front of the boy who had been so scared but so grounded at the same time. Rick could do that too. “I got lost, I don’t know how to get home from here.” He admitted with only a little shame staining his cheeks. The other boy didn’t seem surprised. He pointed into the darkness slightly to their left.

“G’o tha’ way,” he answered, his backwoods drawl easy to distinguish once the fear had left his voice and he stopped whispering. He kept his voice low, sounding older than he was. Rick needed to learn how to do that. “Town’s ‘bout a mile throu’ the swamp, just look ou’ for gators and shit. If it looks like a clearin’ it ain’t one, go aroun’ it.” Rick nodded and was about to turn away, but his manners go the better of him.

“Thank you,” he told the boy, who rolled his eyes and pointed again in the direction Rick was supposed to go.

“Get on! Storm’s comin! Ya’ll loose the moonligh’t” he growled at him, which was not what Rick was use to receiving after giving gratitude. Maybe the boy wasn’t use to being thanked. Rick nodded again, a determination restored in him, and was about to turn to go but the boy’s hand reached for his shoulder, this time almost scared to touch him. “Hey, don’ come back,” he said to Rick, face so serious it aged him more than his low voice had. His bright eyes dimmed a bit in a sadness Rick had never seen in a kid his age. “It ain’t safe here.” 

Rick almost didn’t know what to say to that. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” the boy answered. “I belong here.” A crack of thunder echoed through the empty woods, and lightning struck the clearing behind them, filling up the woods with streaks of light as bright as daylight through the trees. The boy didn’t even flinch from the sound. “Good luck, kid.”

“Yeah, you too,” Rick told him, and turned heel and ran as fast as he could.


	2. Far From Any Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos :) I'm glad some people are interested in this idea!
> 
> This is a much longer chapter than the first one. Yay for Halloween updates! Beware, I am chock full of similes and metaphors, and I get a little carried away with imagery. So I’m sorry if my descriptions kind of ramble on, I see the town and the swamp as characters just like Rick and Daryl and Shane so I get a little lost in my writing sometimes.
> 
> I'm trying to update every two or three weeks, aiming for Fridays, luckily I kept this one on time. Comments and kudos motivate me! And feel free to kick my butt into gear if I start taking too long.
> 
> Un-beta-ed. All mistakes and run on sentences are mine. Enjoy. :)

Every summer Rick went to Chatham County Georgia and did his very best to never step foot in the forest. 

Or at least to not venture too far. His grandmother had had a fit when he arrived after 2 in the morning that night he got lost in the woods, soaked to the bone and shivering, with a shoe missing and scabbed over cuts on his cheeks. Ever since she would barely let him leave the grounds of the old family estate whenever they visited during the summer, not without a fight, and for the first few years Rick obliged with no fuss. Only ever watching the towering old Live oak trees that rose out of the swamp skyline like giant living creatures, covered in trails of Spanish moss that always seemed to be moving. But like most young boys, his fear only sparked his curiosity even more, and the forest became a magical thing that was forbidden but fantastic, terrifying but mystical. He would often go out to the edge of the swamp, peer into the darkened brush, and wonder what was really out there. What was watching him from beyond the trees. Because something was always watching him, he didn’t doubt that for a second. Only the young boy’s words echoing through his head kept Rick from taking that last step into the forest. _“Don’ come back. It ain’t safe here.”_

That was all it took for him to take a step back, turn around, and retreat across the estate lawns and back to the house. 

Chatham County was on the coast of Georgia, and Rick’s grandparent’s estate was right on the border of Bryan County, more inland and away from the jewel of the state, Savannah. Located on the coastal plain it didn’t have any towering mountains, and its backwoods was different than those that were up North of Atlanta. There was something old and fluid about the swampy forests that sprawled along the county lines and trickled underneath the highways, connecting all the big cities of Georgia. It was interesting, though, ever-changing but still appeared to be centuries old.

And it was only a matter of time before Rick wasn’t able to help himself anymore.

It was four years later, 12 years old, that he had made his mind up that he wasn’t going to be afraid of the forest anymore. Rick once again hopped out of his parent’s old maroon mini-van with the rusted Kentucky license plate, taking in the familiar towering Live oaks and American Yellowwoods that surrounded the aged white plantation house. He had ingrained every inch of the estate into his mind, knew it like the back of his hand, the little town of White Oak was too far away to walk, so unless he got that rusted old bicycle working the woods were going to be completely explored before the summer’s end. After hugging his grandmother, back slowly hunching further and further in on itself with each passing year, and had lunch with his parents and grandpappy, who’s eyes kept getting more distant and clouded every time he saw him, he threw his stuff on the floor of his designated room and headed straight for the tree line.

The swamp was brimming with life, bugs and birds and alligators and plants and bogs and mud that would swallow you up and never let go. Rick soon learned to navigate the trees as best he could, his footsteps still scared everything away within a ten foot radius, and he tended to break or destroy anything he touched. But he never got bored out in the woods, and bit by bit he ventured further into the forest. He was always careful to leave a distinct trail back home, he would never get lost in the swamp again. But part of him, the rebellious teenager part that reared its ugly head at the worst of times, wanted to try and find that clearing again. Just to see whatever the boy didn’t want him to see. _Cursed._ The word would forever send a shiver down his spine. But the anger that he would later learn to hate about himself, and even later learn to embrace with a cautious and calculated precision, would cause him to scoff at the boy’s accusations. _Cursed_ , there was no such things as curses. 

He searched all summer for that stupid clearing, when he finally beat the fear that kept him within shouting distance of the estate, but the swamp seemed to lead him in circles and he always ended up back at his grandparents. 

He left his grandparents house that year frustrated, disappointed, with rough calluses on his hands and scabbed over knees. He wasn’t afraid of the swamp anymore, but he also didn’t quite believe in the curse or the clearing either. His grandmother mentioned he might had made it up in his head, just a figment of his imagination; and as much as Rick tried to convince himself that was probably true, there were a lot of things he thought were real that ended up not being real at all, it didn’t change the feeling he got when he was _sure_ something was watching him from the darkness in-between the trees. 

\--

The bicycle in the back of his grandpappy’s shed was just as rusted and useless as it had been for the past 15 years after Rick’s father left it behind when he left for college. It took Rick a week of greasing up the bike chains and sanding down the rusted metal before it was close to functioning, not to mention a walk or two into town for screws and other parts that left the biggest blisters on his feet and ruined his new boots. None the less, it was the very first thing Rick did when he arrived that year; Rick had given up on the swamp. And the clearing. Though coming back to Chatham County did bring back faint memories of that night 5 years ago, but only those brief fleeting memories that everyone has of being small, fluttering and faint but with impressionable emotions left behind.

Rick chose to ignore them.

During his visits to the small town of White Oak, Rick met a few of the people who lived there, who knew his grandparents well and wasted no time introducing him to other boys and girls his age who would be _appropriate_ to associate with. Rick had never been told who he could and could not hang out with before, and didn’t really catch on to their not so subtle hints until much later. So, at the time, he happily made friends with some of the other kids in town, Georgian accents cutting their words worse than his own Southern Kentucky twang, but nowhere near as bad as some of the backwoods rednecks that wandered into town. No one steered him in their direction. 

There was a distinction between the regular townsfolk who lived right off Main Street, and the people who lived off the South side of town and further into the backwoods. It wasn’t always a physical appearance, Rick got in trouble a few times that summer talking to the wrong people; it was more a rift that separated them from everyone else. No one seemed to want anything to do with them, and they didn’t want anything to do with the people in town either. Most of those families hunted for their own food, and only came into town for supplies and even fewer came to Church on Sundays. The only ones who didn’t seem to care were the kids; everyone played with everyone else despite their parent’s objections. 

Rick made fast friends with the very first boy he was introduced to, Shane Walsh. His parents lived on the North side of town up by the Church and the High School, and he smiled a big toothy grin when Rick asked the dumb question “So what do y’all do around here?” Shane took it upon himself to show Rick every nook and cranny that there was to show in a small town like White Oak, and there were quite a few things that Rick wasn’t so sure their _respectful_ parents knew their kids were getting into. Like a few of the watering holes had leeches, one had distinct “Flash Flood Warning” signs every 20 feet, most of the wooded areas had “Private Property: will shoot on sight” along the barbed wire fences, and some of the abandoned houses had floorboard so old and splintered a few kids had broken bones falling through them to the bottom floors. But that was all part of the fun, the danger of it, and sure Rick and his friends did some dangerous stupid kid stuff back home in Kentucky, but out here in middle of nowhere Georgia there was less supervision and even more wilderness to get yourself lost in. 

Shane Walsh wasn’t taller than him, yet, but they would battle their heights out through the summers to come, with a thick mess of black hair and dark eyes and a wide grin that was contagious. He also had the mouth of a 50-year-old sailor. Rick learned to make quick checks over his shoulder to make sure no adults were in ear shot _really_ fast. That year Rick was a little taller for his age, his hair was a curly sweaty mess with how often and far he peddled that bike all over creation, and his blue eyes started to stand out as his farmer’s tan got worse with each passing day. The two boys became inseparable once Rick’s bike was working, and Rick would ride every day into town and get into a whole mess of trouble with Shane Walsh. Much to his grandmother’s disdain. 

It was in the middle of July, hot as the surface of the sun, that found Rick and Shane holed up in the corner store drinking bottle after bottle of soda and wasting their quarters on the two rickety arcade games in the corner. That was the day that Merle Dixon pulled up in his beat up, rusted red pickup truck, a motorcycle tied down in the back next to a dead deer, rifles clipped to a rack also in the back. Merle himself didn’t get out of the truck, but Rick and Shane looked up as they heard him scream at his friends to “NOT FOR’ET THE DAMN BEER THIS TIME!” It was right as the two boys at least five years older than Shane and Rick came into the store, the little door bell being drowned out by Merle’s shouting and the roaring grumble of the truck protesting at being in idle. 

“Look’s like Merle Dixon’s outta juvie,” Shane laughed, turning back to the pinball game and giving it a kick as he started up another round. “Guess they had ta, since he’s over 18 now.”

The two boys, who looked a mighty bit alike to not be twins, were smirking and snickering to each other, not in the least bit troubled by the glances that were being shot their direction from the few other patrons in the store, and especially old Ms. McKreedy who was running the register. The boys came up with two big 32 packs of canned beer, and leaned a little too far over into Ms. McKreedy’s space looking at the cigarettes lining the back wall. They ended up buying a whole carton. The scowl on the older woman’s face was starting to make Rick nervous just seeing it, but the twins weren’t even phased, still talking to each other and laughing. Rick’s mother told him to never listen in on other people’s conversations, but he couldn’t help himself, they were so LOUD. Not that anything they said was making any sort of sense to Rick. 

“Ain’t that ri’ht ma’am?” one of the boys leaned against the counter, slouching into the older woman’s space again as she rang up their items with the beer and cigarettes. “Damn ‘overnment’s been the one’s raisin’ them taxes on shit, ain’t got nothin’ to do with the folks that sell ‘em. Y’all woul’nt d’o tha ta us poor folks?” 

“I’m sure you’d keep buyin’ them,” Ms. McKreedy answered stiffly, taking the money handed to her like it was poisonous. 

“No doubt abou’ tha, ma’am,” the other boy laughed, his twin smirking still and not leaning back off the counter. The horn started blaring in long annoying intervals from the truck, and Merle started shouting that was only muffled by the glass. The boys loaded up their arms with their purchases, and with an exaggerated wink from one of them, they exited the store, Merle still running his mouth off as they approached. 

“Damn bootleggers,” Ms. McKreedy muttered under her breath, pursing her too red lips as she shuffled around behind the register. Rick scowled after the boys that just left, eyes searching between Ms. McKreedy and the other patrons of the store. 

“What are bootleggers?” Rick asked Shane, who’s wide dark eyes snapped up to him at the words. 

“Moonshiners,” he answered with a wide girn, “ya know? They make moonshine up in the mountains normally, but I hear the Dixons have a place somewhere in their mess of the woods. Some old beat up shed with a distiller in it. Everyone says they run that shit down further South to Florida and make a fuck ton off it.” Rick wasn’t sure if Shane actually knew what he was talking about, but he seemed damn sure of it so Rick took his word for it. 

“And the police don’t do anything about it?”

“What are they gonna do? They can’t just run onto their property and search the place, they got no reason to. ‘Sides, old man Dixon will just shoot them dead; hear he’s got a hellva aim even if he’s wasted all the time. That ‘er Merle will come and kick they’re asses, I wouldn’t wanna mess with Merle,” Shane stopped his yammering and leaned in real close to Rick with his eyes still wide with excitement. “I heard he killed someone,” Shane told him in a whisper. Rick’s eyes must have near bugged out of his head because Shane was still grinning and snickering at the look on Rick’s face. “Yep, up near Savannah, heard he curb-stomped a guy outside a bar-“

“Ain’t he only 18?” Rick interrupted, still over the shock he may had just saw someone who killed a person. 

“Pretty sure he’s 19, but yep,” Shane quipped, “bars don’t care though, he’s a Dixon. They supply almost everyone in Chatham County, Bryan and Liberty too.”

“Wow,” Rick breathed, trying to ignore the stupid questions on the tip of his tongue. He had no idea what moonshine or curb-stomping was. Moonshine was probably alcohol if they had it at a bar, and curb-stomping sounded violent. Hell with it. “…what’s curb-stomping?”

Shane gave him an exasperated look, “exactly what it sounds like. You throw a guy to the ground, and once his head is on the curb of the street you stomp on it real hard.”

Rick flinched at the thought. “Jesus.”

“Yep, real nasty shit,” Shane said as he finished off his soda. “Like I said, wouldn’t want to fuck with Merle fucking Dixon. Or any fucking Dixon.”

“SHANE ANTHONY WALSH WHAT DID I JUST HEAR COME OUTTA YER MOUTH?” Ms. McKreedy shrieked from behind the counter. Shane had his turn to visibly flinch, probably at the thought of the beating he was about to get. “Wait ‘til I get yer momma on the phone Shane Walsh, she’s gonna tan yer hide-“ Shane snagged Rick’s wrist and dragged him out of the store so quick Ms. McKreedy didn’t even know they were running until they were already out the door. Rick swung his leg over his bike and followed Shane who was beating pavement as fast as he could, laughing and grinning as he spun around people on the sidewalk and anything else in his way. 

Rick skidded his tires to a stop in the gravel when Shane doubled over on the outskirts of Main Street, breathing heavy with his hands on his knees. “WHEW!” he yelled into the sky, his smile splitting his face wide open. “My momma is gonna be so mad at me if that old bag McKreedy actually calls her. Can I live with you?”

“I’ll hide ya under my bed,” Rick answered with a smile. “They’ll never even know.” Shane laughed at him as he started off back down some of the back roads, Rick peddling slow next to him. 

“Good, back up plans are good,” Shane giggled. They shot the shit the whole way to Shane’s house on the North side of town, located right next to the church since Shane’s Uncle was the local pastor there. “Just let me get my bike and we can head off into the woods, I’ll show you the way to the Dixon’s property,” he told him as he walked away, digging through the over-grown outer garage. Still talking mind you. “Maybe we can try to find that distiller somewhere out there!” he called, voice faint behind the towers of cardboard boxes and Christmas decorations and car parts. “I tried moonshine at my cousin Jimmy’s last summer, shit burns so bad I couldn’t taste my dinner that night, my tongue burned for days, and it gets you DRUNK,” he shouted, the last word especially, really loud, making Rick self consciously look around for any responsible adults in the vicinity. 

“I never been drunk before,” Rick admitted. “Tried my dad’s whiskey once with my friend Jamie, but it tasted like gasoline so I ain’t ever tried it again.” 

Shane appeared back outside the garage with cobwebs stuck to his hair and wrapped around his bike. But he was grinning that crooked grin that made Rick’s insides squirm. Every time Shane smiled like that Rick usually got into something super dangerous, last time he had leeches all over his legs. 

“Well, let’s see if we can change that.”

\--

The boys wound their way through the woods, Shane yammering the whole way and seeming to know some invisible path that led them off the gravel roads but away from the bogs and muddy sink holes. They broke out of the forest after a while, hitting a road that was half gravel, half red dust, and half different debris from the woods like run down leaves and twigs and remnants of Spanish moss. It was a bumpy ride to say the least, and the road couldn’t seem to go straight to save its life, “paved by drunkards” is what Shane yelled to him. 

Shane skidded to a stop out of nowhere, and waited for Rick to stop by him before he pointed through the woods. There was a house that blended in so well Rick wouldn’t have seen it otherwise, a dark brown tinted green from weather and humidity. It was set back about 50 yards from the road, and Rick could make out a gravel lot and driveway that led to it that must have started somewhere up in front of them. 

“This is the Dixon property,” Shane told him, somewhat quieter this time. “And that’s their house. Last time we were out here I saw somethin’ that looked like a shed back that way.” He pointed a little to the left of the house. “I bet’cha anythin’ that’s where they brew everythin’. Ain’t no way Old Man Dixon would let that shine outta his sight, so it’s gotta be here.” Shane smiled at Rick, who didn’t quite return his smile but let out a huff of a laugh and his lips involuntarily quirked a bit at the other’s enthusiasm. “Everyone else was too chickenshit to come out here with me, so we’re gonna check it out.” Shane pushed his bike through the brush on the side of the road and let gravity take its course down the hill as he rounded the Dixon house from the North side, avoiding the gravel lot as much as he could. Rick sighed, checking the road both ways, before following. There was no way this couldn’t go bad if Rick didn’t make sure Shane didn’t do something reckless. 

His bike fumbled the whole way down the hill, sounding ridiculously loud to Rick’s ears as he tried to navigate through the brush. And not hit a tree on the way. Shane had made his way along the tree line, hopping off his bike and just pushing it along, keeping a careful eye on the still dormant Dixon house. To Rick the house looked like no one lived there, there was too much debris and dust covering every surface, and the porch looked one stiff wind away from collapsing in on itself. The remnants of a wire mesh inclosement clung to the support beams in tattered pieces, and the things on the porch were a mix-match of barely passable pieces of furniture and just random junk. There were no lights on in the house, and no movement. It was chilling to look at.

“There it is!” Shane hissed towards him in excitement, smile splitting his face again as he pushed his bike faster and broke through the treeline behind the Dixon house. And low and behold there was a battered wood shed sitting pretty on a raised wooden platform down at the bottom of the hill behind the lot. The boys set their bikes out of sight of the house, and started around the platform towards the set of wooden stairs. The platform wasn’t that high, but they couldn't pulled themselves up if they wanted to. 

Shane whooped none too quietly when he found them and thundered his way up and across the wood to the shed before stopping dead.

Rick’s boots made a hollow echoing sound up the few steps to the raised wooden platform, the wood was bleached white from the sun, dusty and splintering and covered in bits of the forest. What looked like a shed from afar wasn’t one at all, it was barely more than one wall of a shed, in fact it was hard to see how it was standing up at all. And the side facing the rest of the raised platform had what could only be described as an altar. An organized mess of bones and stones and jars piled up and around it and spilling over the sides onto the ground. The boys took cautious steps towards it, eyes taking in each of the hundreds of things around it. 

Alligator skulls, at least a few, and some that were just the severed head treated to forever stay that way. Snake skins draped almost carefully over many surfaces, and Rick could hear something his grandmother had said echoing through his head from years and years ago _“don’t touch that snakeskin, boy! It’s bad luck, it’ll curse ya.”_ There was that word again, _cursed_ , and as Rick looked around at the dozens of crystal stones and rocks, jars of pickled plants and flowers and weeds, black dust in various jars and on the ground circling the altar in a precise circle, the animal skulls and chicken feet, furs and skins and unlit candles, and the 5 point star incased in a circle of stones and dust, he was starting to find a new fear of the word. A real fear, something tangible and concrete, because he could see it in front of him. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Shane breathed next to him, taking even more steps towards the altar, but his boots were careful not to cross the black dust ring around the altar. Rick was as well, but he hadn’t realized he was doing it. With a rush of curiosity out-weighing his fear, Rick took a deliberate step over the line, and then another; it was just bad timing that a giant gush of wind broke through the valley and made the trees come alive around them, shaking the leaves in a torrent and howling through the branches and Spanish Moss. The boys were tense watching the forest come alive around them, but the breeze died a moment later, and Rick and Shane stared at each other with wide eyes. Shane huffed a small laugh that didn’t reach his eyes, “this is some sick shit.” He went back to looking through the endless amount of objects laid before them, but didn’t dare get as close as Rick. “I didn’t think the stories were true, they –Goddamn Rednecks fucking worship Satan-”

Sunlight glinted off of jagged colored glass and metal pieces hanging from the top of the suspended wall like wind chimes, clanking with each other and other bones and skulls also on strings, making the most eerie sounds. Rick took in every piece of the display, and found a strange beauty and symmetry in the mess, as well as lines and writings in a language he didn’t understand all underneath the objects. Written in white chalk, and another memory flashed through his mind of a boy with white and brown lines painted on his face. He didn’t see a bit of the devil in any of it, just the life and death of the swamp in carefully placed stages all over the altar. 

“I’m not sure it’s gotta do with Satan, Shane,” Rick said carefully, still entranced as his eyes traced the center of the altar. The stones that surrounded the five point star had symbols on them, strange swirls and squiggly lines that must mean something to someone. There was a method to all of this, it looked so ancient and out of place behind the run down Dixon house. 

“ _Are you fucking serious_ ,” Shane all but screeched at him, eyes darting between the Dixon house and Rick at the altar, “what part about this doesn’t have the Devil written all over it to y- DON’T TOUCH IT YA IDIOT!” Rick snatched his hand back, he had just barely brushed his fingertips against the petals of the flowers tied in bunches upside down from the altar. “Come on man, we gotta get outta here before one of them Dixons find us snoopin’ around. Old man Dixon won’t show us mercy just cause were kids, and he sure as hell won’t call my momma like McKreedy. He’ll just beat us senseless or shoot us dead.” 

“Wha’ the FUCK are ya’ll doin’!” A voice hollered from their left. Rick was about two seconds away from making a run for it, not quite sure Shane wouldn’t leave him for dead if Old Man Dixon was the one that found them. Snapping their heads towards the voice, Rick and Shane saw a figure heading towards them like a freight train. The boy was about their age, whippet thin and broad shouldered, clothes too big but tied tight to his frame, and he had a large hunting knife strapped to his hip that must have been the size of Rick’s forearm. 

“Holy shit,” Shane breathed in what sounded like relief, doubling over and bracing his hands on his knees, before looking back up at the newcomer. “Daryl you scared the shit outta me, I swore you was your Old Man.” The boy climbed the steps two at a time in thick hunting boots, scowling deeper at them with each step.

“Ya’ll lucky I ain’t or you’d be dead, get the fuck outta here and AWAY FROM THAT!” He shouted as he saw where Rick was standing. His eyes, which had been squinting against the bright sun, snapped wide open. “YA’LL CRAZY!?!? GET OUT!” Rick jumped about a foot in the air and out of the circle fast as he could. He found himself standing just behind Shane prepared to use him as a shield.

“Daryl the fuck-“

“I SAID GET OUT! YA DEAF!?! YA NEED CONVINC’EN!?!?” He fisted his hand around the handle of the hunting knife and was drawing it as he didn’t slow his pace towards the two boys. Rick was already turning and running to jump off the platform. It was a low drop but his shoes skid out on the leaves blanketing the ground. He scrambled to keep moving and mounted his bike not even checking to make sure Shane was behind him. As he was turning it around to high tail it out of the lot, he head Daryl Dixon shout at them, “AND DON’ COME BACK!”

“ _Don’ come back. It ain’t safe here._ ” Rick froze hunched over his bike, scraped and bleeding palms on the handlebars, and he couldn’t take his wide blue eyes off the other boy. Finally focusing on his face; he couldn’t see if the boy’s eyes, now squinting against the sun again and hard face scrunched up in anger, were blue or not. He tried to remember if they were when he got all wide-eyed at seeing Rick so close to the altar, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. His hair wasn’t too short, messy and dirty blonde, brown smudges lined his face and neck, matching the dirt that clung to his hands and fingernails. And right next to his mouth was a small mark that could’ve been a smudge of dirt if it didn’t _exactly_ match the mark on the boy that saved Rick in the woods all those years ago. 

“Rick! Come on!” Shane had caught up with him, and was already starting to peddle his bike towards the gravel road. Rick followed him, but when he tried to take another look at Daryl the boy was gone. Only the bone and wood altar stood on the platform, glass chimes echoing faintly with the breeze.


	3. Danger and Dread, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I planned out this chapter, I apparently bit off more than I could chew. I had written to just about the halfway point, when I realized this chapter was already longer than both the previous _combined_. So I had to split this in half, it was almost a 9,000 word chapter, that might be a bit much in one go. 
> 
> But thank you so much for all the comments! You all are so kind, and I love that everyone seems to enjoy my long ass descriptions of everything. This chapter was a little harder to get out, it has a character judgement based on what Rick is experiencing. Also writing horror scenes proved to be more difficult than I first thought it would be. If some of the things they do are confusing, I apologize, everything was supposed to be answered in the end of the chapter but since I split it up it'll be in Part II next week.
> 
> Only notes for this chapter is the song from the end is "Rattlin' Bones", the version I like is by Kasey Chambers and Shane Nicholson if you're curious, and the name "Nainaine" is not a person's name but a title that is given to a Godmother or Aunt.
> 
> Once again un-beta'ed, all mistakes and awkwardness are mine. Hope you enjoy. :)

Rick couldn’t stop thinking about Daryl Dixon.

He had spent so much time trying to forget that night in the woods, and the boy that had saved him from what felt like certain death. At eight years old everything feels like the best or worst thing ever, like there will never be anything but what was happening right then and there. Now thirteen Rick knew better, knew that what happened tomorrow could erase the events of today just as easily as they could memorialize them. Rick had never found the boy from the woods in town, and he had asked his parents tirelessly when he was small; so he had given up on him, an imagined bit of a night that was all a mystical but terrifying nightmare he’d needed to put behind him. 

It was easy to obsess over, though, the magic of it all. The coincidence that he had happened to meet that boy again, that he once again was pointing Rick away from something that _felt_ so enchanted and forbidden. Or chased him away, this time. It only took Rick the bike ride back to his grandmother’s house for supper for Rick to convince himself that Daryl Dixon was the boy that pushed Rick to the ground in the forest five summers ago. 

Drenched in sweat, Rick peddled his bike to the shed behind the house, still lost in a sea of thoughts inside his own head. Images of the altar, the hundreds of objects all around it, the clearing that Rick had never got a good view of from years ago, firelight dancing along the tree bark that faced that clearing, And Daryl Dixon’s face, scowl set firmly in place, with that little mark set off to the side of his mouth. Rick and Shane had parted ways with distracted good-byes when they passed the road to the plantations boarding town, where Rick’s grandparents lived. They hadn’t spoken much, still too spooked by what they had seen on the Dixon property. Rick would have a lot of questions for his friend when he saw him next, he was sure of that. 

Rick set his bike against the wall inside his grandpappy’s shed, away from the glaring sun that had not ceased its unrelenting heat all afternoon. As he shut the doors to the shed, setting the rusted catch-spring lock in place, Rick caught sight of something etched into the wood on the doorframe. It had two pieces that were triangular in shape, but with swirls coming off the ends, like a loopy hourglass; it was carved in the wood but was the same bleached and beaten color as the rest of the shed, showing it had been there for a while, weathered with the rest of it. And Rick had seen the shape before, drawn in white chalk on a stone, one of many circling the five point star on the altar at the Dixon house. Mouth open in shock, fingers a little shaky but slowly tracing the grooves of the carving, Rick’s constantly churning thoughts had stuttered to a complete stop. 

Why was a witch’s mark carved into the wood of his grandpappy’s shed?

Rick circled the shed twice, looking for any other marks, but found none; his gaze zeroing in on the mark each time he passed it like a magnet. He almost touched it again when a thought struck him, he had seen something carved by the front door years and years ago. Just a little quirk of his grandparent’s house that was weird, but part of the estate all the same. Turning on a dime, Rick ran towards the front of the house, rounding the giant white building in a big arch. He flew up the steps two at a time, and crashed to a stop at the front door, shoulder banging against the giant oak doors. He pushed himself back, panting a little from his sprint, using his hands to help him look for the marking around the door. His eyes caught it first, a really eccentric tangle of lines that had the uncanny resemblance of an eye, unblinking and turned to look towards the doorway. 

He was going to be really late for supper. Because Rick was soon running to every corner of the estate finding matching symbols carved into wood, scratched into rot-iron, and even painted onto a vase at the base of the grand staircase inside the front doors. They were _everywhere_ , hidden amongst the everyday things that had been there as long as Rick could remember. 

His fingers were once again tracing that same all seeing eye; this time on a second set of back doors that led through the mud-room and into the giant kitchen. The plantation owners had changed a lot of the old slave entrances and rooms into cleverly disguised work rooms, like the mud-room where Rick was ordered to take off his swamp covered boots so as not to track mud through the house. His grandmother had called for him, proclaiming how late he really was, because if his grandmother was the one shouting for him that meant his mom had given up. He would be in big trouble later. So despite the adrenaline still rushing through him and his erratic heartbeat, Rick obediently gave up his quest around the estate and headed inside. Where he found another mark just to the left of the doorframe to the kitchen, coated in a fresh layer of white paint, but still carved in all the same. Every time he found a mark, touched it with his hands, traced each line, a shiver of something _electric_ and _wonderful_ and _terrifying_ shot down his spine and sped up his breathing. Each encounter settled in his stomach heavily until he felt like it was clawing at his throat. He had seen every single one of those markings at the altar behind Daryl’s house. Rick was sure of it.

He had to go back.

Just to check they were the same.

A creak echoed through the room quickly followed by the door slamming shut against the frame. Rick jumped at the sound, head whipping around and fingers leaving the mark on the entry way. There was no one behind him, just the wind pushing against the door and making the window panes creak. Breathing a sigh of relief, Rick’s shoulders un-tensed and settled as he realized it must have been the wind. The afternoon had him spooked. 

“Don’t slam the door!” Rick’s mother yelled at him from the kitchen. Tearing his gaze from the empty room, Rick found his mother in the kitchen gathering up dishes with potholders and ferrying them from the counter to the long table settled against the far wall. They ate most of their meals at the kitchen table; the dining room was large and ornate and the red walls made it appear dark and formal, they only used it for important gatherings like Thanksgiving or Christmas. Rick quickly helped get everything on the table top and settled into his designated spot between his mother and his grandpappy’s wheelchair. His mind still a mess of the events out in the woods, and the symbols placed all over the estate. Every now and then Rick’s eyes would stray to his grandmother, who seemed to know a lot about everything, and probably knew why the symbols were carved into the walls. But he couldn’t get his voice to work, he didn’t want to bring it up in front of his parents, he’d have to wait until he came back from the woods.

Because Rick was going back to the Dixon property. Tonight. Before the sun set. 

He had about another hour of daylight, and he was sure he could get to the Dixon property without Shane’s guidance. Pretty sure anyway. He felt like he had the route burned into his mind, which roads to take, how far and what direction to ride through the woods. He could get back there. He knew he could. The Dixon house actually wasn’t too far from the estate; their properties were back to back with just a couple miles of state owned swamp land in between. He could get there and get a good look at the altar again before the sun fully set, evening stretched long into the later hours during the summer. 

Too distracted by what he would have to do, this time alone, Rick absent-mindedly pushed his food around his plate until he could excuse himself from the table. Not bothering how rude it was to just run out the back door and not help to clean up dinner, his mother would probably make him do chores the whole next day to punish him for it. And for how late he had been to super. 

Rick rushed through the giant kitchen and back through the mud-room, shoving his feet into his boots and lacing them as quickly as he could. His mother was shouting at him to not be out too late, of which he answered he wouldn’t he just needed to run to Shane’s really quick, his heart hammering in his chest at the unpracticed lie. He had snatched a flashlight and was tugging open the back door when the knowledge of what he was doing slammed into him so hard it knocked the breath out of him.

Not that he was about to go to the Dixon house alone, so near dark. But that he was opening the door inwards, the same direction the wind was blowing.

He thought the wind had slammed the door shut.

The warm breeze pushed against him, standing stock still in the door way with his hand starting to sweat against the tarnished brass door knob. The panic that raced through him was so cold it _burned_ , frozen in fear. Slowly, Rick forced himself to step over the threshold and pull the door closed behind him. He was losing what little daylight remained. 

He’d have to worry about how the door closed on its own later. 

How it _violently_ closed on its own.

\--

The sky was bleeding red and orange by the time Rick made it to the Dixon property, the forest alive with sounds as the night time critters started to wake now that the heat of the day was leaving the air. Rick had left his bike down the road and inside the forest a few feet, the trees were so thick he had no worry that anyone would find it in the few minutes he would be gone. He slowly picked his way through the forest, his footsteps loud and clumsy despite the cadence of insects making a blinding white noise all around him, and headed down the hill and around the house towards where he knew the platform was. But as he got closer to the gravel lot at the bottom of the hill, Rick was able to see a little better through the trees, and his heart jumped to his throat at the sight of four vehicles parked in a semi circle backing the Dixon house. 

There was a giant four door muscle car with the chrome missing and the paint peeling, an unmarked maintenance truck that had also seen better days, and two pickup trucks. One was Merle’s rusted red deathtrap that Rick had seen earlier that day, the motorcycle that was in the back now parked on the ground beside it. And a few yards from the lot the deer that had also been in the tuck-bed was hanging from a tree, split wide open in places, blood dripping into the grass below it. 

Rick startled as the sound of a crash echoed from the open porch, and one of the twins came bounding out, hunched as if ducking something, before throwing their empty beer can at the two figures chasing him out. The second twin had the loudest laugh Rick had ever heard, but he guessed out here in the middle of nowhere they could be as loud as they wanted, and Merle was shouting his incoherent storm of slurred curses. But he still had the best aim, clocking his own not so empty beer can smack in the first twin’s face, who doubled over at the blow. 

Side stepping as quietly as his boots would let him, Rick used their distracted scuffle to start making his way towards the platform, still staying just inside the tree line. He only needed to go up for a minute, just to see the symbols drawn on the stones there. His heart beating so quick he felt it would make him sick, Rick darted from the tree line to the platform, eyes never leaving Merle’s towering form. His back was turned to where Rick was running, but that dirty tank top did nothing to hide all the muscle in his arms and back. Rick tried to keep the vivid images of him curb stomping someone from his mind, quickly hiding himself with the raised platform and hunching to run along the ground beside it. Rick was becoming very familiar with this life-threatening fear blinding his actions, and he was trying hard to wrestle with it and still keep himself focused on what he wanted to do. Get up the platform, look at the altar, get out, don’t get caught. Don’t get killed. 

He almost stepped up the stairs, but his foot stopped midair as he saw a figure in front of the altar. Rick darted to the tree line again, not wanting to risk whoever was there. He braced his back against a tree, panting air from darting back and forth across the Dixon lot, and the fear had knocked his breath out of him. He couldn’t see to gasp air back into his lungs. He shifted his feet, leaning to the side and peering around the tree he was hiding behind, and saw the figure had not moved. It was a woman kneeling on the platform, an older woman, older than his grandmother even. She hadn’t moved an inch, despite what had to be Rick’s very noisy escape back into the forest. 

Another series of loud crashes ricocheted in echoes across the property, and a mountain of a man stumbled from the darkness of the house, yelling at the three boys still scrapping in the gravel lot. Rick couldn’t make out what he was saying, but there were a lot of “shit”s and “fuck’n”s and “g’et”s in that string of words, and even Merle had stopped to look at the man as he yelled at them. The twins were twitching and cowering behind Merle, but jumped to attention as a loud “G’ET TO IT!” was bellowed and the boys started back towards the house. Merle moved slower, more steady; no fear in his stance, just a deadly quiet aggression, and he stared down the man that Rick was now sure had to be his Pa. Rick had thought Merle was scary, but he found a new meaning for fear when he realized the mountain of muscle was Old Man Dixon. 

“Ya got a prob’em boy,” Dixon said lowly to his son, who just sneered a wicked smirk, tilting his head a bit before answering.

“No, sir.” Rick didn’t want to call the twisted thing on Merle’s face a smile, and Dixon looked like he wanted to smack it right off. But Merle moved faster than his Pa and started towards the house, roughly brushing past the twins who had started to bring boxes and crates of junk towards the trucks. 

Rick was so tense his muscles had started to twitch and shake, adrenaline still pumping through his system and over-whelming him. He really shouldn’t be here. Why did he think that the Dixon’s wouldn’t be back home at this hour? It was supper time for God’s sake. What had he been thinking? 

Movement caught Rick’s eyes as a slimmer figure slid quietly out the back door of the house and started making its way towards the platform. Daryl was still wearing the same clothes from before, hunting knife still strapped to his hip, and his footsteps made no noise as he picked his way down through the few trees littering the back area of the property and rounded the platform to the stairs. 

“Nain’?” Daryl called to the woman, who still hadn’t moved despite all the commotion up by the house, or the noises as the boys started loading boxes and crates into the truck beds. Daryl’s boots made light resonating sounds across the wood panels, and he paused and shuffled his feet a bit before asking again. “Nain’e?” The woman was breathing deep, facing the altar and Rick couldn’t really see her face, but her shoulders were relaxed and for all Rick knew the woman was sleeping. His hand twitching a bit, Daryl hesitantly reached out for the woman’s shoulder, a few false starts before he nudged it and brought his hand back like a snake had bit him. The woman startled, making a small surprised noise before looking over her shoulder and up at Daryl. “Nain’aine, we hav’ ta go.” 

Sighing deeply, she nodded tiredly, and raised her hand palm down towards Daryl; who took it and helped the old woman to her feet, leading her down the stairs and towards the group of cars again. Dixon was on the phone, spiral cord reaching onto the messy open porch, muttering so lowly Rick couldn’t hear him from his hiding spot in the trees. The boys had fully loaded the backs of the two pickup trucks with boxes full of what looked like bowls and pieces of broken glass and other useless junk. The wooden crates made clanking sounds of glass on glass, and Rick spied mismatched sizes of mason jars full of clear liquid. The roaring sound of another car started down the lot, a few more rumbling from the road, and Dixon made some gesture to an empty spot beside Merle’s motorcycle as the new car pulled up slowly to the house. 

Swallowing hard, Rick’s eyes darted between the gathering that was starting in the lot, and the now empty platform just a few yards from his hiding spot. More and more people were arriving, a few girls hopping out of the new cars up by the road and making their way down the hill, some men climbing out of the single car now parked next to the house. They all were exchanging loud greetings that meshed together and Rick couldn’t distinguish words except for a few girls who screeched happily and ran eagerly towards the old woman who was sitting on the porch steps. Daryl retreated once she was settled, shying away from the girls with a half-hearted glare, who didn’t look like they needed to be told twice and started yammering at the old woman excitedly. 

There was too many people, Rick wouldn’t be able to make it on the platform with everyone standing _right there_. But it looked like they were packing up to leave somewhere, Rick leaned heavily against the tree and watched the group start to separate into little clusters. They were waiting for something. 

Suddenly Dixon disappeared into the house, reappearing just as quick, stumbling down the stairs and stuffing a _gun_ into the back of jeans with clumsy movements. He said something to Merle as he passed, who nodded and shouted into the crowd of noise “Al’IGHT LET’S _MOVE_ PEOPLE! GET YA SHIT AND GET GOIN’!” Everyone started moving towards the cars, doors slamming and engines sputtering to life in deafening roars. Merle stepped up to his brother, who had been leaning against the side of the porch by himself, smacking his shoulder so hard it jostled him forward and almost knocked the lit cigarette out of his mouth. Daryl shot him a glare that would make Rick’s skin crawl, but listened as Merle said something to him and pointed in few different directions. First the woman on the porch, then the woods back close to where Rick was hiding. Rick’s stomach did a flip again, and he started to inch away from where he knew they were gonna be heading. Daryl threw his cigarette to the ground and nodded, still glaring at his brother, who smiled that crooked smile and took another swing at Daryl, the younger boy ducking under his arm and making a beeline for the porch.

Rick’s eyes were still flitting between everything: all the cars making their way up the hill, Old Man Dixon climbing into a truck with one of the news guys, Merle and the twins piling into their rusted red heap, the platform Rick needed to get to, and the group of people starting to make their way towards the woods. He just had to wait for them to pass and he could get up that platform and get the hell out before anyone came back. Two girls were on either side of the old woman, escorting her towards a path in the woods to Rick’s right, a few other kids younger than them followed with a man that looked to be as old as Dixon, and Daryl took up the rear while still keeping a good few feet distance between himself and the rest of the group. 

They walked a little too close to Rick’s hiding spot. 

There was a path not a few feet from where Rick was hiding among the trees. He pressed his back against the tree, trying to steady his breathing, and quietly and carefully side stepped around the tree with the group on the other side. Slowly tilting his head to see around the curve of the yellowwood, he had just barely missed looking Daryl straight in the eye, causing him to flinch at their close proximity even though Daryl kept walking none the wiser. Rick froze in place, painfully aware of how loud his boots would crunch in the underbrush if he moved even an inch, and watched the group retreating up the barely there footpath into the swamp. The girls were still chatting non-stop, and their voices carried a little easier now that they were so close. 

“-an’ jus’ ya wait, Nain’e, til ya see wha’ we did wit the spot. Tha’ last storm trashed up the clearin’ real bad, ya’ll see all the branches n’ stuff all along the edges-” one girl yammered in a high pitched voice that stumbled over her own words, barely pausing to breathing in excitement.

“But we clean’d it up all nice fer tonigh’!” another one, much younger, chimed in loudly. 

Rick had been bracing against the tree, ready to dart out of the tree line and finally make it up to the platform, the sun was starting to set fast. But had tensed at the word “clearin’” coming out of the girl’s mouth. 

There was no way they were going to that clearing, _the_ clearing, the one Rick had spent all last summer trying to find. 

Rick felt torn in two, the platform was _right there_ , bleached wood glowing orange in the dying light. It would take him just a couple minutes to run up the steps, see the white chalk markings on the stones, and run up the hill and down the road to his bike. He could go home. Forget the clearing, like he said he would.

Or he could follow Daryl into the woods and finally find his clearing. _Their_ clearing. And see what Daryl didn’t want him to see all those years ago. His heart hammered against his ribcage painfully in both fear and anticipation, as the words drifted back to him, _‘DONT’ LOOK! If ya look ya’ll be cursed, and then I can’t help you. No one will.’_ Rick could still barely see Daryl a couple yards from him, the path winding through the dense forest, faint sunlight that cut through the trees catching brokenly on his mess of sandy blonde hair. There really wasn’t even a question as to what Rick would do, was there?

The girls had started singing something with a jolty and home-spun rhythm. 

“Smoke don’ rise, fuel don’ burn, sun don’ shine no more.  
Late one nigh’, sorrow come round, scratchin’ at my door.  
But I cut my hands, ‘n I break my back, draggin’ this bag a’ stones.  
‘Til they bury me down, beneath the ground, with the dust ‘n rattlin’ bones.”

Rick didn’t even look back twice at the platform.


	4. Danger and Dread, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry for how late this is, almost an entire month and I've finally scavenged up the strength to finish this chapter. This chapter was so hard to write as well. As I mentioned last time, it is the second half of what I had planned out for chapter 3, and I got carried away with the descriptions again. It was difficult only because once again the whole thing is from Rick's point of view, and he doesn't understand what is going on. The descriptions have tangible connections to real voodou practices (as well as many mistakes that Rick doesn't know the difference between what is good and what isn't), so I got a little swept up in the challenge of it. Lots of research, and trying to figure out what I could change and what I could keep. I realize almost everyone who reads this won't recognize the actual bits of Voodou practices, but it makes me feel better and it's fun to learn about. 
> 
> This chapter DOES have some warnings for it: violence, voluntary bodily harm, animal sacrifice, probably disturbing descriptions. But if you are like me you've been waiting for a possession scene for a while. In voodou practices, possession is a _good_ thing, and is an honor to actually have a successful possession. There are many spirits, the Lwa, that can be called upon, and how the possessed acts reveals who is possessing them. Also my French is crap, I apologize if you speak French and can see how badly I butchered it. Rick doesn't speak French so there won't be a translation anyway, it's more there for character. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

“When a snake is cut into pieces, its friends come to get it and put the pieces back together.” – Translation of Voudoo Superstition

\--

It was dark by the time they got to the clearing. The trees casting dark shadows in an overlapping tangle of obscurity. Rick cursed under his breath as he stumbled for the hundredth time on some unseen branch or bush under his feet. It seemed Shane was rubbing off on him more than he thought.

The now shadowed figure of Daryl tensed and snapped around at the crunch he made from the underbrush. Rick darted to the tree directly in front of him, pressing close and holding his breath, not daring to peek around the curved bark to see if the boy was still searching for him. He had almost been caught multiple times during their trek through the woods, so much so Rick’s mind was still a blinding mess of panic and excitement and carefully precise inspection of the group in front of them. He had stopped paying attention to where they were going a while ago, and Rick knew that he wouldn’t be able to remember the path they had taken over the past hour.

It was ironic that Rick seemed to only be able to find the clearing when he was lost in the woods.

The sounds of the girls were growing fainter, indicating the group was still walking away, and Rick dared a glance around the tree to see Daryl slowly turning back and starting on his way again. The kids were almost out of sight at this point, but a weak glow flickered at the end of the path. Breath stuttering in his chest, Rick stayed where he was until the others disappeared past the tree line and into the pale firelight before he moved an inch. Then he was flying through the brush, down the now open trail, and into the dense swamp surrounding it before he reached the opening to the clearing.

All the cars from before were there, parked in a semi circle opposite the overgrown dirt road as if waiting for something. A fire was burning high, a pile of mismatched timber caught aflame in a triangular tower that would collapse once the flames ate through the wood. Most had gotten comfortable, laughing and talking and drinking, though a few looked tense in the firelight. Like this wasn’t a celebration and needed to be taken seriously. Rick had lost sight of Daryl somewhere in the small crowd of people.

He tried to duck his head and see through the branches, giving the perfect opportunity for bright headlights to blind Rick’s line of sight, cutting through the trees and shining on the crowded clearing like a spotlight on a stage. A few people cheered, raising their glasses at the small grouping of cars that pulled into the lot, completing the circle around the bonfire.

All the new arrivals were men, a mixture of tall and broad, but all were a darker color Rick had only seen further South. Each climbing out of the low rider muscle cars and lone pickup truck, faded and rusted Florida license plates haphazardly screwed on the front. There were about six or seven of them, dressed in mostly black shirts and jeans, looking very out of place in the Georgian swamp. Rick squinted through the bright headlights, trying to get a good look at their darker complexion and foreign faces. They all approached slowly, flanking each other and not giving away if anyone was the leader. The group of rednecks around the fire did not do the same.

Old Man Dixon stood up, making his way to the front of the group and into the no man’s land between the bonfire and the newcomers. Taking his place facing the line of men like a king before his tribe. Rick suddenly became painfully aware of the gun Dixon had tucked into the back of his pants as they left the property.

He shouldn’t be here.

Someone was going to get shot, and he _really_ shouldn’t be here.

Rick wasn’t quite sure how Dixon was holding himself together, because he had been stumbling just moments before. But now he stood tall, unwavering, and he looked _big_. Standing in front of the men with the Florida license plates, he towered over them like a giant, an unmoving mountain of muscle. Finally one man in the center of the row smiled, straight white teeth standing out in the darkness, and stepped forward to meet Dixon, stopping not a foot away and squaring off reminding Rick of the cowboys from old Western movies. They reached forward at the same time, clasping hands tight, a drunken smile meeting a tilted smirk as they exchanged greetings. Their other hands, however, hovered over the weapons resting on their bodies; Dixon over the hidden gun in the back of his jeans, and the newcomer over the very visible knife sheath on his hip.

Old Man Dixon’s speech was slurred and low, a tangle of jumbled words cutting consonants in only that backwoods Georgian way. Making introductions to a select few in the group behind him, Rick only catching the last two through his heart pounding in his ears “ma boy, Merle” said Dixon, pointing behind him without turning his back on the newcomer. Mere stepped up through the crowd of people as he was mentioned. At 18 Merle still looked like he could bench press every single guy in that line. “An’ ma youn’ one,” Dixon gestured vaguely past the ring of people slowly forming next to their half of the cars.

A sick feeling of nerves clawed at Rick’s stomach as he caught the glints from the firelight off of gunmetal and steel hunting knives in the hands of the people stepping forward. A few were shifting nervously, making Rick more anxious, as they inched slowly into a crescent shape backing their leader; attack positions ready if needed. And then the lone red glow far behind the fire, from Daryl back in the shadows of the trees with a cigarette burning, stood back far enough that he could high tail it out of there if needed. He was strong for his age, but no use in a fight yet. Rick wouldn’t be either if he somehow got caught up in the tide of violence waiting on the horizon.

He shouldn’t be here. He needed to leave, now, before something bad started.

Rick was becoming painfully aware of each crunch of leaves beneath his boots. He swallowed hard, trying to jostle his feet to get the blood flowing again from how long he had been crouching behind the tree line. His racing heart was doing him no favors in keeping his feet from going to sleep.

Still smiling, the leader made his own introductions, speaking in an accent Rick had never heard before. He placed his own hands on his chest, indicating himself and speaking so slowly that it must have been a little insulting to some of the people there. “And I am Dominic Moreau,” he had stated, Rick now able to calm his racing heart and hear the conversation over the mixture of noises surrounding the clearing. “An’ we are very happy to begin this business with you. Your products will do very well on the coast,” he finished with that same tilted smile that was too bright. Dixon had dropped his own smile, quirking his mouth when he deemed appropriate. He didn’t seem the type that was too concerned with making friends, and if the twitch in Moreau’s smile was any indication, he was starting to understand that as well. “ _So _,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together, moving them as if removing any stray dirt left behind by Dixon. “Shall we begin the blessing?”__

“An’ ge’ on wit’ tis party,” Dixon agreed, the drunken smirk returning to his face. He extended his hand again, which Moreau grasped tightly once more, with gusto, clutching it with all his strength. Dixon returned the gesture. They had reached an understanding, knowing how dangerous each party was. “An’ we brough’ the booze. Fer samplin’, o’ course.”

“Of course,” Moreau smiled. Now resting his hand fully on the sheath of the hunting knife. “What kind of celebration would it be without drinks?” All Rick could think of was how this party looked like it was closer to bloodshed than celebration.

Damnit, he shouldn’t of come here.

Rick watched with wide eyes as Old Man Dixon shook the other man’s hand, muscles in their forearms bulging as if it was still a test of strength. But then Merle let out a howl of laughter and shrieked into the night sky, followed by trills and screams from everyone else standing in the clearing. A shudder ran through Rick at the echoing sounds just as a breeze blew through the forest out of nowhere, shaking the trees and circling through the group.

Something was happening.

Drums started to thrum as the men let go of each other’s hands, still standing tall and squaring off, not daring to turn their backs on the other, but they stepped back and let the girls and the twin boys start moving things around the clearing. Merle had disappeared and reappeared with a rusted wire cage full of roosters, and Daryl had silently melted out of his spot in the tree line and was helping the elderly woman make a circle and other triangular symbols with a can of white spray paint on the ground. Moreau had twitched his mouth into a disgusted look at the paint cans, but carefully schooled his expression and let the group who owned these woods do things their way. Rick ducked his head from side to side, trying to see through the branches what everyone was doing, but they were all moving so quickly, knowing exactly what needed to be done and where the pile of junk (that apparently wasn’t actually junk) in the truck went. Instantly Rick knew what was happening, and it hit him like a freight train.

They were about to do a ritual.

Oh shit, oh shit he REALLY shouldn’t of come.

The elder woman made herself comfortable on the ground, inside the circle, sorting and organizing different materials and bowls that Daryl and a few younger girls were bringing to her. Rick had thought she was talking to herself while she did these tasks, but soon realized she was barely stopping to breathe as she spoke, she was _chanting_. In time with the drums, a few others muttered along with her as they made the final touches on the area. Daryl lit the candles on the ground with his zippo lighter and some really thin sticks that started to smoke immensely in billowing straight lines, as well as something in one of the bowls that started to crack and spark before smoking a little as well. The old woman picked up the bowl, fanning the smoke into her face and inhaling deeply before doing the same to Daryl and another girl still in the circle. She set it carefully on the ground, but determined like that was the only spot it could go.

Old Man Dixon stepped up to the circle, one foot in and one foot out as if it didn’t bother him either way what was drawn onto the ground. A few people tensed as he did this, including the old woman who was still chanting, and Daryl who eyed his father’s feet warily. Dixon had one of the roosters squawking and squirming under his arm, and his hunting knife in the other. He was talking in low tones that Rick could barely hear over the thrum of the drums being beaten by the tree line. The drums stopped, as Dixon kept talking, and Rick could hear his words carry with the crackling of the bonfire and the chimes of the glass and bones hanging from the trees.

“-an’ so I will le’ the ri’tual beg’n. Bless it and get on wit it.” He shoved the squirming bird in the old woman’s face, who gave him a look that if Rick had received from his grandmother he’d have shrunk back in on himself. She took the rooster in her old shaking hands, the bird calming immediately with her touch, raising and lowering it over various bowls and smokes and fires, chanting to it in a low cadence. The drums stayed silent the whole time, and Rick held his breath and watched as captivated as everyone else standing around the circle. The old woman then passed the rooster to Daryl, who handed it off to Merle, who had his own jagged hunting knife waiting and slit the rooster’s neck almost clean off. There was barely a squak, but a shower of blood sprayed over the drawings on the ground and a few of the teenagers sitting nearby, the symbols must have been a mess where the blood fell heaviest. Merle held the gushing bird over one of the larger bowls that must have been empty, and the old woman ran her hands over the sprayed blood. Not touching it, just hovering over it; reading it. She looked up, to the group sitting next to her; of the ones closest to where Merle killed the rooster, Daryl was the one who had the specks of blood over his face. His expression was devoid of any emotion, but his lips had tightened and his shoulders were tense, and he didn’t dare look at any one except the old woman in the circle.

She nodded to him, gesturing to something written on the ground, and looked up to Dixon who was still standing there but now with a bottle of something in mercury glass in his fist. It had to be liquor, Rick had seen him taking swigs of it during this whole process. “Bring out the rattlers,” she said to him. Merle’s face split into a wide grin and Moreau smiled his blinding tilted smile as well.

“GET THE SNAKES!” he shouted to the twin boys, who were already halfway to the truck. Merle let out another bark into the night, followed by a trill that was echoed by everyone else as the drums started up again but this time in a slow pulsing cadence that sounded way too much like a heartbeat for Rick’s liking. The girls and another young boy left the circle and Daryl moved closer to the woman still on the ground, settling on his knees and taking a cardboard box from one of the twins, setting it on the ground next to him.

“The serphant brings wisd’m!” Merle shouted, talking much louder than his father, so Rick could hear him over the drums. “Guid’ence! An’ the spirits o’ the forest have chos’n this powerful critter to speak to us. Darylina here will be their vessel, if he don’t fuck it up too much,” he grinned at the death glare his younger brother sent him. “May they bless our travels and bus’ness with y’all folks, and keeps them damn pigs off our trails. Bring us success in ou’r ven’ures, riches, and le’ us all live to brew another day.” Cheers and trills echoed around the clearing, the other men and woman raising mason jars and mercury glass bottles, drinking to the speech. Merle handed his little brother one of the mercury glass bottles, a label peeling off the side written in a language Rick couldn’t read. Daryl took a giant swig of it, and the woman started to chant words again that were also foreign. The drums picked up, the girls had dawned pieces of the forest into their outfits, skirts of Spanish moss and dried tall grass, bones, and were painting lines on their faces with some of the products that the old woman had made in the bowls in the circle. The old woman, meanwhile, was also painting lines on Daryl’s face, who sat patiently as she did so. Only turning away to take another swig from the bottle, or breathe in the smoke when the old woman brought it up to him. Once she seemed satisfied with her work, she gestured to the box and let Daryl reach in to bring out a black and grey and brown snake. Rick’s eyes went even wider, that was a fucking Diamond Back rattler! His grandpappy had been warning him about those ever since he could walk. Every time he saw one they looked _pissed_ , curled up in on themselves and puffing out their glands, making their heads and fangs seem even larger. Rattler moving so fast it was a blur. He had never seen one all stretched out like these were, and they were alive Rick could tell, rattler not moving but the snake itself sliding along Daryl’s wrist and forearm as he brought it in front of the older woman.

That in itself sent a shiver down Rick’s spine, goosebumps were rising on his arms, and his heart had started to beat faster than the drums. Which were steadily increasing in tempo. The snake shouldn’t be acting like that. 

Daryl got a good hold behind its head, but he didn’t need to cause it sat still as you please as the old woman sliced into its belly just below were Daryl held it and cut clean down the entire snake. Daryl did his best to keep the liquids from spilling over the sides of the snake, and aimed for another of the bowls, or the same one as the rooster blood Rick couldn’t tell them all apart anymore. The old woman then cut the snake into segments and placed them around the circle in precise places. She dipped her fingers into the bowl with the rooster blood, and drew a line lightly off center down Daryl’s face, then repeated the action with the blood from the snake.

The people around the circle were singing and chanting, drinking still and without cause to stop, watching the show in the middle of the circle as well as the one surrounding it. The woman and a few of the new men were dancing in a circular motion, getting lost in a drunken stupor more than the eerie electric charge that filled the air. Everything felt wrong about what was happening, like the only ones that cared in the meeting were few and far between, but they were all participating with gusto. Just doing something didn’t mean you believed in it, Rick had heard his mother once say “going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car”. It seemed funny at the time. But this was dangerous, intentional, and Rick didn’t like watching these people celebrate something that he was starting to believe they didn’t really understand.

The old woman tipped over the cardboard box, and six more Diamond Backs slithered into the circle between and around Daryl and the old woman. Rick counted them himself, six, and wasn’t that a little chilling as well; terror was blinding Rick’s mind but he couldn’t seem to get away. Couldn’t make himself get up and get the hell away from what was happening.

Fuck, he really shouldn’t’a come here.

The rattlers slithered around the sections of the snake squed around the circle, touching and sliding against each piece. The woman’s chants were rising to mix with the drums and singing and laughing of everyone surrounding them, raising the bowls of smoke and fanning them over each snake and in Daryl’s face, who was transfixed with the rattlers surrounding him. Rick would be too, one bite from them and he’d be as good as dead. Rick watched in horror as the woman gestured to Daryl, and with shaking hands he reached tenderly towards one of the snakes closest.

The snake pulled its way up onto Daryl’s hand, winding its way up his arm and nosing under his shirtsleeve before just going over it and across his shoulders, down his back. Rick was watching the snake with such intensity he didn’t see the other one start to follow the same track. But it paused after wrapping around his wrist, curving into a tell-tale S shape that Rick knew all too well. Anyone who lived out in the woods knew that shape. The woman inhaled the smoke from the bowl, and blew it on the snake on Daryl’s wrist seconds before it struck and sank its fangs deep into Daryl’s arm.

A sharp yell escaped Daryl’s lips, the boy jolting to yank his hand away but the old woman had a firm grip on his hand, halting the other one as well from wrenching the snake from his arm and keeping him rooted to the ground. Rick’s eyes were wide as saucers, and he knew he screamed with Daryl when the snake bit him, a hand going up to his mouth as soon as it happened to keep himself from getting caught. Fear kept him frozen as he watched Daryl struggle to get up and away from the snake. Snake’s bit you and let go, a sudden frightening strike to either kill their prey or ward off an enemy, they didn’t just bite and not let go. Daryl’s eyes were wide with panic and his mouth hung open panting for breath, pain lacing every feature and every tense muscle.

The snake finally let go, sliding over the wound and onto the ground. With smooth, precise movements the woman brought up a knife and quickly cut into the wound on Daryl’s arm, draining the mixture of blood and venom onto the ground. Daryl was breathing so hard he was almost hyperventilating, his other hand had come up to his wrist just above the bite, as if he was trying to cut off the blood flow to the rest of his body. His limbs shook in either pain or terror, Rick would bet both, and the panicked look still hadn’t left his face. The old woman seemed to be keeping calm and trying to sooth Daryl at the same time. Draining as much as she dared from the wound, she then picked up a needle and black thread, stitching up the cut on Daryl’s wrist in giant X’s, which only seemed to make Daryl panic more. He was shaking his head, saying something to her in low tones, but Rick couldn’t hear them over the drums and songs and chants. She brought up a bloodied hand to Daryl’s face, who in his panic still flinched away from the touch, and stared right at him and said something to made Daryl tense more. But ultimately stop struggling.

 _No!_ Rick thought to himself, loudly, not daring to remove his hand from his mouth in fear he would just shout it across the clearing. _NO! GO! Don’t stop fighting! Get up!_ But Daryl sat back on his feet, the old woman patting his cheek sweetly and going back to what she was doing. Moving the bowls out of the way, to the edges of the circle among the scattered remains of the first snake. The other six hadn’t left the vicinity, still circling around the cut up pieces, gliding against the warm ground near the fire, nosing at the bowls full of blood and paint and other things Rick couldn’t see.

Everyone was so lost in themselves, in the cadence of the drums, and the circular dance around the white circle on the ground, that no one really noticed when Daryl started listing to the left. His breathing had picked up again, and he was swaying where he sat, a trembling hand supporting him on the ground. But it soon gave way and Daryl fell to the ground, struggling to sit up or lift his arms, but they wouldn’t cooperate. A sheen of sweat slicked over his skin, and he kept turning his head this way and that like he couldn’t focus on anything. Merle whooped at the sight, coming up through the circle of dancers, but not stepping into the circle of white paint. “That’s it boy!” Daryl’s whole body jerked, tensing inwards, convulsing in short bursts, and Rick felt bile rising in his throat. _They’re killing him. He’s not possessed or whatever he’s POISONED, THEY’RE KILLING HIM! IT WAS THE FUCKING SNAKE YOU IDIOTS!!!_

Chest heaving, Daryl clawed at the ground in desperation, feet scraping at nothing; different parts of his body seemed rigid and unable to move. The bite itself was swelling and blistering around the coarse black stitches, and his veins stood out in blue and black lines up his arm. Spit bubbled around the corners of his mouth, and his eyes had turned white as they rolled back in his head, his whole body arching and twisting on the ground as he struggled against the venom in his veins. Rick was two seconds away from just jumping through the brush and into the circle because _no one was helping him_. Daryl was thrashing too close to the many lit candles, burning bright and low to the ground as they slowly ran out of wax, and a few bowls had already been toppled over in his struggle with his limbs.

They’re killing him. “You’re killing him,” Rick said into his hand, the tears he didn’t know had been falling making it wet and sticking to his mouth. “ _You’re killing him!_ ” he almost screamed through a choked sob. That was _it_! Rick wiped the tears from his face in one swift movement, and stepped out of the brush.

A sharp scream broke from Daryl’s mouth, back arching off the ground and whole body going rigid. The drums ceased and every single person stopped their movements and watched with bated breath. Rick had stopped too, and found he couldn’t breathe because _Daryl wasn’t breathing either_.

No. No, no , no. Rick’s heart thudded in his chest, painfully against his ribcage, and his eyes darted in panic to everyone else around the circle. No one seemed worried by the still body in the circle, instead waiting with a tense expectation that something WAS going to happen and Daryl wasn’t going to just die there in front of an audience. Only Merle seemed to look increasingly worried with each passing second where his little brother _wasn’t fucking breathing_.

Finally, Daryl’s muscles twitched a little, a shaky breath was taken past his cracked and dry lips, and a tongue darted out to wet them in small movements. The old woman, who had stood at the edge of the circle, seemed to heave a sigh of relief and breathed out a word Rick had never heard, once again a language he didn’t know. “Dumballah,” she said with a soft smile.

Some of the newcomers smiled too, repeating the word around the circle. "Dumballah."

The tension leaked from Daryl’s body slowly like air escaping from a tire, until he was rested boneless on the ground. Kneeling next to him, the old woman said something lowly that Rick could barely hear. When Daryl spoke back he wasn’t looking at her, or anyone, just staring straight above him at the spidery mess made from the billowing smoke, drifting lazily through the night air and catching the light from the campfire. His muscles twitched in short bursts and spasms, and his head still moving slightly in swaying movements. His voice was quiet, and Rick couldn’t understand a word that was coming out of his mouth. “Ne pas attendre jusqu'à demain,” he almost whispered, and a few people tensed as he spoke. “Ce soir. Vous allez devenir prisonniers si vous ne les laissez pas. Il doit être ce soir.”

Rick stepped backwards as quietly as he could, trying to retreat back into the forest line, his temporary insanity over with and his only thought was to _get the hell out_. He couldn’t even remember why he had come here. Thoughts unclear as he let the blind fear take over his actions and help him remove himself from what was occurring. Every person had seemed to understand what Daryl had said except Rick, and they were not happy with it. Old Man Dixon’s jaw had set hard, a scowl set firmly back on his face, and his gaze darted to Merle, who nodded stiffly and started motioning for a few of the men to follow him. Daryl was finally breathing like himself again. Rick wasn’t sure if that meant it was over or not.

“Ya heard ‘im,” Merle said into the tense silence. “We go’t work ta do! Load up them damn trucks, it’s gonna be a long night boys.” Everyone made to move until a sound like a hiss escaped Daryl’s lips, his whole body clenching in on itself again, his bite wound reopened. The snakes became restless, finally leaving the circle.

Wide eyed and frozen to the ground, Rick barely moved a muscle as the Diamondback Rattlesnakes escaped the confines of the circle in quick gliding motions. Leaving in perfectly spaced intervals in each direction. He had counted six; Rick watched as the fourth one came up to him, slid between his rooted boots, and into the swamp behind him. His gaze zeroed in on unexpected movement of brown and grey and black scales sliding smoothly over Daryl’s open wound on his arm, nosing at the leaking fluids leaving the now torn stitches, before a seventh snake started slithering about the circle.

The scattered remains, and the blood that had been spilled all over the ground, had disappeared.

“Il y a un espion parmi vous.”

Sharp gasps and murmurs erupted about the gathering, and the seventh snake followed the path of the others into the swamp. As soon as the snake was out of the circle Daryl’s whole body jolted like a coil had been snapped. Coughing and gasping for breath that seemed to escape him, he collapsed in on himself and curled around the still open wound on his arm. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, pain blurring his vision, and the old woman had carefully placed her hands on his shoulders as Daryl curled further into himself. The touch doing nothing to comfort him.

The whole gathering was in an uproar, people shouting and pointing and yelling in a jumble of words, some guns and knives being drawn, others stepping between arguing parties trying to calm the chaos. Rick had retreated even quicker when the groups had become upset by whatever Daryl had said, standing just inside the tree line and wanting nothing more than to run for his life. But he had to make sure Daryl was alright. No matter what Rick think he saw, he was still convinced the boy had almost died right before his eyes. He had been watching the other people, particularly the larger ones, to make sure he hadn’t been spotted, but now he was rooted to the spot once more.

Because Daryl was staring right at him.

_Shit._

From where he lay curled on his side, Daryl had the perfect vantage point to see Rick through the trees. And his vision was clear now, Rick was sure, because his blue eyes were wide and hard and angry.

And scared.

 _Move_ , Rick told himself. _Move, right now! Run! RUN!_

His body was on a delayed reaction, but finally he convinced his feet to move, each boot feeling as heavy as a cinder block, and he bolted into the dark forest. Not knowing where he was going or what direction, just that he had to get away.

 _‘Don’t come back here, it ain’t safe. You’ll be cursed, and then I can’t help ya. No one will.’_ Daryl’s words echoed through his head in increasing intervals. _‘Ya deaf? Ya need convincin’!?!_ ’ Fuck, he should’ve never gone in the woods.

He didn’t stop running until the sound of the forest crashed in around him like a barrier had been broken, cicada and birds and gators hissing and all sorts of noises colliding into a white noise that made Rick double over against the nearest tree. Gasping for air heavily, he looked around him, making sure he was alone, and the realization that he was once again _lost_ hit him like a freight train.

Almost as hard as the body that hit him at full speed and slammed him into the rough bark of the tree.

Daryl’s eyes were furious, blazing though there was no light in the dark of the swamp, face still covered in the remains of the painted lines that he had sweat through during his possession, and breath still escaping in painful pants. Somewhere in the back of his mind Rick wondered if the other boy was bleeding on him as well from where he had him pinned to the tree, his injured arm heavy across his chest.

“Ya fuckin’ idiot,” Daryl growled at him, voice low and shaking in barely controlled anger. “Ya really do have a death wish, don’ ya!?!”

“No,” Rick said back stubbornly, “I don’t! I just wanted to see-”

“I though’ I told ya ta nev’r come back here!” Daryl interrupted, still pushing Rick into the tree. In all his teenage stubbornness Rick had started to push back, trying to put some distance between himself and the other boy, but Daryl seemed to want him right where he was. His anger was making his whole form vibrate, or maybe his body was still reacting to the venom in his veins, or exhaustion. The boy looked one wrong step from falling over, but that obviously wasn’t true from the force he was pinning Rick with. Rick couldn’t make Daryl budge an inch. “I told ya it ain’t safe here!”

Rick’s eyes snapped back up to Daryl’s in an instant, breath caught in his throat. He had stopped struggling, causing Daryl to release his strong hold a fraction. “You… You remember me?” Daryl’s eyes narrowed in the darkness, a scowl set firmly on his lips. “From that night in the woods, when we was little?”

“Ya didn’ list’en ta me then, neither,” Daryl muttered under his breath. His glare looked more exasperated now, but still annoyed and even a little afraid. He let go of Rick entirely, stepping back as if Rick had been the one that was keeping them so close. “I don’ know how much ya saw, but ya gonna get yerself killed. Or worse.”

“Cursed,” Rick supplied, which only seemed to make Daryl angry again.

“Yeah, _cursed_ , yer so fuckin stupid.” Daryl ran his hands through his hair in irritation, fury still barely simmering beneath the surface. Rick wasn’t quite sure what to say to make this right, but he was sure telling Daryl he had seen the entire performance was not an option. “Ya have no idea wha’ ya could’ve set free, ya weren’ suppose’ta be there.”

“I couldn’t leave,” Rick said suddenly. He needed Daryl to know, he had just wanted to see the clearing, but everything in that clearing from the men and their guns to the old woman with her snakes and knifes were _dangerous_ and… Daryl had saved his life once, Rick owed him that. “I-I thought you were gonna die! They were killing you! Letting that snake bite ya and-” Daryl flinched at the memory, keeping his wound out of sight, but he had gone back to staring at Rick in anger.

“Ya saw the whole th’ng then?”

“I wasn’ gonna just leave you there!” Rick shouted at him, Daryl’s anger making his own build within his chest. 

“Why the fuck do ya care!?!” Daryl yelled back, eyes guarded and angry, and their voices echoing against the trees and through the swamp. They both seemed to realize this at the same time, ceasing their shouts almost simultaneously, but both didn’t drop the angry glares set on each other. Daryl huffed in annoyance, seeming frustrated that Rick wasn’t backing down or even afraid of him. “Ya have no idea wha’ could’v happened there, ya could’v been _shot_ ,” he spit the last word out in an attempt to scare the younger boy. “or _stabbed_ , or Nain’e coulda sicked the Lwa on ya if she thought you was trespassin’. Hell, she coul’n’t stop ‘em if the damn Lwa thought you’se was interupptin’ their cer’mony. Ya disrespec' the Lwa, you’se as good as dead. They don’ take too kindly to outsiders. You’da never been able ta step in the forest ever agai’n.”

Rick had tried to hold himself still and steady through Daryl’s threats, but that dreaded feeling of the unknown and what this _magic_ the young Dixon was involved in actually could do both terrified him and excited him. A mess of adrenaline flowing through his system that couldn’t tell if he was scared or mystified by the little hidden world he had stumbled upon. However, Rick couldn’t shake the undeniable vanity embedded in him that was similar to most teenage boys, and even displayed in Daryl Dixon as the boy tried to scare Rick off back to his corner of the woods; the irrefutable urge to impress the other boy.

“Too late for that,” Rick had muttered, just loud enough for Daryl to hear.

“What?” Daryl clipped, scowl firmly back in place.

“Doesn’t matter,” Rick scoffed, matching Daryl’s scowl. “I barely stepped foot in the woods ever since that night,” he said matter-of-factly. “Was too scared when I was little of the thing in the trees.”

Daryl had become deathly quiet. “What?” he repeated, voice even but there was an airiness that hadn’t been there before, making the anger drain out of Rick like a siphon.

“The thing in the trees. There’s… somethin’s always been following me, ever since. That’s why I never went in the woods when I was little.” Even now, Rick could feel the tell tale signs and symptoms that had become all too familiar, returning in a churning combination of suffocating and disturbingly comforting, embracing him like an old friend. That _something_ was watching him from the darkness in the trees, with unblinking eyes and cool breath that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Whenever Rick was in the woods in Georgia, he was never alone.

Daryl was watching him with wide eyes, as wide as Rick had seen them for longer than a split second. Maybe it was the dark, allowing him to see without squinting against any traces of light, but the expression on his face was vexing. Not exactly worried or scared, but more anxious and even a slight bit in awe. Like Daryl should’ve known what was happening all along and he's somehow been tricked.

“Wha’dya mean?” he asked carefully, his expression appearing open but not giving away any details to what he was feeling. It was annoying to Rick, who felt he was good at observing people. If anything, Daryl looked a little spooked. “…somethin’s followin’ ya?”

“I ain’t never seen it,” Rick admitted quietly, shrugging to make it seem offhand, but he wasn’t as good as Daryl at hiding his emotions. “It’s always too dark, hiding in the shadows.”

If Rick thought Daryl looked spooked before, the terror that sparked in his eyes was bright enough to make Rick loose his breath.

“It ain’t in the shadows,” Daryl told him, anger seeping into his stance, a more defensive anger that made Rick’s own adrenaline spike. “It _is_ a shadow. _Fuck_. I can’t-” Daryl turned from his spot he had been standing so still in, now unable to stop moving. Pacing back and forth like a caged animal at the zoo, but his eyes never straying from Rick for too long. “’f they been follown’ ya for this long, now they know ya. They’ll always find ya. I _can’t_ \- I can’t help you now!” He seemed to get more angry with each step, and Rick felt a cold burning feeling of dread sink into him with razor sharp teeth. His brain couldn’t keep up with why he wasn’t in pain, he felt like he was dead already.

Words didn’t seem to be Daryl’s strong suite. He was trying to tell Rick something, and he kept looking at Rick like he could will him to understand without opening his mouth. There were a lot of false starts and muttering that Rick couldn’t quite catch over the rapidly increasing beat of his heart in his ears. “If it follows ya all the time, there ain’t no way you’d still be alive – unless it wants ya for somethin’. Somethin’ bad-”

“Not all the time!” Rick blurted out. “It doesn’t follow me home, to Kentucky,” he supplied, trying to help Daryl along in finding a way to… save his life? Rick didn’t know if he was in as much danger as Daryl was making it out to be. As much as he felt he understood what Daryl was trying to tell him, Rick really didn’t know him well enough yet. “I-It only follows me in the woods. It ain’t never followed me to my grandparent’s house! Or into town. Just out here in the woods.”

Daryl nodded once, a sharp gesture, but it was a flood of relief to Rick’s fear-blinded imagination. “Okay, th’n let’s get ya home. ‘fore it finds ya aga’in.” He stepped back, gesturing through the trees where they were supposed to go. “Jus’ keep a look out. They’d be stupid hard to see in the dark, just a gian’ shadow that ain’t suppose’ ta be there.”

Rick had sworn he could see the moon through that gap in the trees above Daryl’s head just a moment ago.

That cold animal fear - like serrated teeth had sunk into his chest - had returned, making it hard to breathe.

“Kinda like that?” he whispered, not tearing his eyes away from the spot in the tangled tree tops. Daryl’s head whipped around so fast he stumbled a bit, eyes locking where Rick’s gaze landed. The two boys barely moved as they stared at the spot.

Then the shadows moved, fast, revealing the blaring moon bright and fat and so terrifyingly real.

Rick didn’t even have time to scream as Daryl darted towards him, grabbing his arm in a painful grip and not stopping as he raced into the dense swamp. The opposite direction of where they were supposed to go, but away from the shadow creature.

Rick should’ve never gone back into the woods.


	5. Wax and Wane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot say how sorry I am that this took so long, I have no excuse, but a word to the wise: never get married around the holidays, or any holiday really. Especially if your work's busiest days are when everyone else is out of school. Me thinks I didn't think that all through. I haven't had a moment to myself until this past week, and that was because we were kind of on a pre-honeymoon. Luckily that meant I had time to get this chapter finished! 
> 
> No real notes this time, it was written in a little bit of a hurry but I tired to fill it with as much excitement as I could! Also little bits of fluff FINALLY, it seems I will be flirting a little bit with some young romance, that's just kind of how my story turned out as I wrote it. It's a surprise to me too. My chapters are getting longer too, I may just have to accept that they will all be +6,000 words and embrace it.
> 
> Unbeta-ed again, except for my own edits. Run-on sentences and awkwardness are mine :) enjoy

The swamp was eerily quiet, no birds or insects chirped in the dense dark night. In fact the only sound that could be heard was the wind through the trees, and the crashing and crunching of boots as two boys ran for their life through the jumbled mess of vines and moss and branches. 

Leaves and twigs snapped at his face as Rick was dragged through the woods at top speed, not following any path and struggling to keep up over the roots and bushes and stones that caused his feet to stumble over each other. Daryl had an iron grip on his wrist, not letting go and not slowing down for the other boy, leading him into the darkness of the dense swamp and frequently checking behind them to survey the trees and the canopy overhead. Rick had just taken to keeping his eyes closed tightly, mostly against the brush that seemed to attack his face while Daryl just dodged them in practiced movements, but also because he _did not_ want to know what was following them. Vicious images burned behind his eyelids as his imagination ran wild at what the shadows looked like: razor sharp teeth and grotesque figures reached for them with spidery fingers from the darkness, and Rick could feel the ever present fear claw at this chest.

Rick could finally peek through squinted eyes into the darkness, the outline of Daryl still in front of him to match the firm grasp on his wrist, and Rick could never feel so grateful that he wasn’t alone in this nightmare. Daryl’s head snapped behind them again, keeping an eye on the surrounding swamp, but his eyes darted to Rick’s for a moment, and a new determination seemed to settle in him seeing the other boy watching him. Looking to him. Because Rick would be lost in the forest with the shadows were it not for Daryl. 

The boys darted through the swamp along Daryl’s invisible path, and it wasn’t until Rick stumbled through the treeline onto a familiar trail, and then back into the dense wall of trees before he realized where they were going. Daryl was taking them back to the Dixon property. 

By the time Rick could see the raised platform and the altar glowing white under the full moon, he was out of breath, lungs burning in protest, and the sharp sting of cuts and scrapes littered his face and hands like ants crawling on his skin. The boys were beating their feet as hard as they could across the gravel lot and practically jumped the steps to the porch. Rick still felt uneasy about the Dixon house, the walls were unsteady and covered in green stains from the forest, wooden planks splintering and peeling. The tin roof was edged with rust in generous doses, and the windows were mostly wire mesh and broken glass. It wasn’t until Daryl’s free hand reached his front door that he released Rick’s wrist, pushing open the door and diving into the darkness of the house, leaving Rick to trip over the various objects on the porch before reaching the threshold and slamming the door shut. 

The interior of Daryl’s house reminded Rick of a mixture between a hunting store and the inside of his grandpappy’s toolshed, except with furniture. There was stuff piled everywhere, bits and pieces of wood and steal and plastic that didn’t look like they belonged to anything covered every surface. Junk that Rick couldn’t imagine anyone buying or _where_ someone would buy such things filled all the other empty spaces, and guns and knives were mounted on the walls along with various looms and beaded creations. But soon Rick couldn’t even look around the room as everything was plunged into darkness, the moonlight that had streamed through the windows snuffed out like a light. 

Loud clangs and banging came from what sounded like a kitchen from the echo they brought, and Rick followed the frantic noises to a doorway that had pale moonlight pouring out of it. Daryl was muttering to himself, holding jars and an old Crown Royale bag that was smudged with black dust and a giant container of iodized salt, still digging through drawers and cabinets. He spotted Rick out of the corner of his eyes, and jerked his head in his direction, “don’ jus’ stand there! Help me!” Rick jumped at the statement, and was across the room in a second, taking the items from Daryl’s arms and letting the other boy continue on his search. 

It had been dead quite except for the two boys moving about the house, so when the wind beat against the windows of the kitchen in a sudden burst from the calm summer night, Rick couldn’t contain the shout that escaped him. Daryl had tensed too, whipping around to watch the blackness press against the walls and windows, but didn’t make a sound. His hand went to Rick’s arm, who had luckily not dropped the items in fright, quieting him with a quick. “Hush!” Watching as the darkness slid along the windows, blocking the moonlight that had brightened the kitchen moments before. Rick had leaned closer to the other boy, both steadily not looking away from what haunted them. It didn’t have a shape, as Rick had feared before, just a black shadow that swirled and constantly moved. But it never entered the house.

“Why ain’t they coming inside?” Rick whispered to Daryl, not sure how quiet he was supposed to be.

“They can’t,” Daryl answered in that low voice that wasn’t a whisper but was just as quiet as one. “The house is bless’d, if the door stays shut they ain’t gettin’ in.” 

“So what’s all this for?” Rick asked, lifting his arms a bit to indicate the items he held.

“’n case they g’et the door op’n.” Daryl said. “Or the windows.” 

Rick’s blood turned to ice again in fear.

“T-They can open doors?” a thought struck him suddenly, so suddenly he almost felt his heart stop. “Can… can they close ‘em too?” 

“Course,” Daryl answered. He seemed to pick up on Rick’s tense silence. “Why?”

Rick couldn’t find his words, throat suddenly lodged shut. They were in his _grandparents HOUSE_ , he had left the door open and now there were those _things_ in his house with his grandpappy and his grandma and his mo-

“They’re in the house, Daryl,” Rick chocked out, his voice breaking in panic. “My _mom_ is there! My Grandma! They don’t know, they don’t-“

Daryl was in his face in a second, much too close and too fast, taking ahold of his arm and shaking him with one hard gesture. “Stop.” Rick’s words halted in his throat, his blinding panic gone like a wisp of smoke. “Ri’te now, we gotta worry about ‘em getting’ in _this_ house,” Daryl said in that low tone, determination set in his words and his gaze that he would not break with Rick. “ Now- stop spazzin’ an’ help me.”

Once Rick let out a firm nod, the boys darted out of the now dark kitchen and into the rest of the house. Daryl shoved a stack of boxes from atop a semi-high structure, and wiped the remaining debris to the floor in one swoop, revealing a shaky card table in the center of the living room. He then darted around the room, grabbing candles and a bowl and a tin box that jostled its contents as he stacked them on top of the other items in Rick’s arms. Last was a dusty black cloth, which he threw over the table, and then took everything Rick had been carrying and unceremoniously piled it in the middle. Rick, at a loss as to what to do, stood up the candles that had fallen over and started digging through everything so they could find whatever it was that Daryl needed. The glass and wire whistled as another gust of wind flew by, a brief moment of moonlight struck the room, once again illuminating its contents before plunging it back into darkness. How many were there? That they could block out every window.

“ _Shit_ ,” Daryl gritted out, clicking open his lighter multiple times, but the constant circling of the shadows outside caused each spark of fire to go out as soon as it was lit. Rick cupped his hands around the candle Daryl had been trying to light, about to give the boy a look to try again, but they soon became in sync, lighting each candle and slamming a glass hurricane over the top to keep the wind from putting them out again. Daryl moved each candle, five in all, to different corners of the table, grabbing the salt and tossing the Crown Royale bag to Rick (who barely managed to catch it). “Make a line wit’ that in fron’ of all the doors and windows.” Rick nodded and went to the front door, opening the soot covered gold tie-strings and pouring the black dust within in a straight line across the threshold of the closed door.

“What is this stuff?” He asked Daryl, looking back at the boy once his line was made, and managing to contain the shout that jumped up his throat as the door jostled like something had rammed into it. Rick shot back from where he had sat so close, scooting a good three feet before whipping around to look at the redneck who was pouring salt in lines on the table. “It stops ‘em?”

“Goofer dust,” Daryl answered, not looking up from his work. “Keeps demons out, usually, should keep ‘em out ‘til the sun comes up.” Rick nodded, feeling more confident now that he had something that would keep him safe. He made quick work of the windows that lined one wall of the living room, making the lines on the ground below the windows, so as to keep the shadows from blowing them away with the summer wind. He came up to Daryl, taking a look at the five point star he made out of the salt, each point crowned with one of the lit candles, and the intricate design that was still being drawn out in lines of salt in the center. 

“Wan’ me to get the others in the house, too?” Rick asked.

Daryl nodded, still not looking up, “an’ the back door,” he added. 

The kitchen was bright again when Rick came back to it, spreading the goofer dust along the window panes that still had glass intact and along the doorway. He no longer jumped at the rattling of the wood and glass as the shadows returned, casting the room in darkness once more, taking this chance to glare at the mass of black blocking the windows. He backed out of the room quickly once he finished, making his way down the hall and into one of the rooms.

Rick blanched at the over powering smell of smoke and sweat and musk that was soaked into the room. The metal framed bed was unmade and covered in dirty clothes, as was the floor and the stacks of boxes and crates that hid the carpet from view. And a desk sat buried beneath more crates and papers beneath the lone window. Rick climbed it quickly, laying a much too heavy line of dust across the window sill before darting out and back into the hallway. 

A loud crash from the living room echoed down the empty hallway, the light from the candles had been streaming along the off white walls faded in an instant, and the whole house seemed to shake from the force of the wind outside. Rick, keeping an eye on the shifting ceiling above him, didn’t even see Daryl until he was on him, pushing him back the way he came until he stumbled into the only room he hadn’t checked. Shutting the door with his foot, he snatched the goofer dust out of Rick’s hands and spread it on the ground in one quick swipe. The room they were in was smaller, no real furniture except for a dresser of drawers that had seen better days and the mattress on the floor in the corner with a mountain of blankets and pillows piled on top. Daryl was at the only window, pouring the last of the contents of the bag in a line before dropping it as the shadows slammed into the glass, a spider web crack appearing and creaking its way up to the window frames. He backed up, hand hovering over his hunting knife and the other grabbing Rick’s arm again until they boys’ back’s hit the opposite wall. 

The shadows were relentless, near shaking the whole house in their tirade, but never getting past the walls. “They ‘r angry,” Daryl said quietly. 

Rick nodded as he kept his sights on the quivering panels of wood and tin all around them. “A ‘huh.” The wind died a bit, but Rick still couldn’t see through the window, and he shuddered at the thought that the shadow was just staying there _watching_ them. Daryl seemed to know this as well, and inched forward in slow movements, grabbing one of the blankets out of the corner, and covering the window with it. Rick was next to him without even thinking about it, helping fold the corners over the window panes, and then sliding down the wall sitting side by side with the other boy. 

He looked over to Daryl, watching as the boy seemed to stare at nothing, but was still tense. He had to be listening, seeing if the shadows were going to make another move. He only stayed silent for a minute, before licking his lips, Rick asked, “Now what?”

The window shook with a sudden force much harder than before, glass finally breaking and falling on the boys still sitting beneath the window. Darting up, Rick felt Daryl drag him in the direction of the corner where the mattress was and push him to sit down against the wall again, this time a wall that wasn’t facing the outside of the house. The walls shook like a hurricane had descended on them, and Rick once again found himself huddled close to Daryl as they waited for everything to pass. “Now, we wait,” Daryl answered him when the wind died down. He sank against the wall, propping his arm against his knee and looking to the tin box he still held on to. Contemplating, though Rick could not guess what. 

“What are they?” he asked after a moment, if he was going to be stuck here in this room with Daryl Dixon, he was not going to do so in this uncomfortable silence that made his stomach crawl and his insides squirm. 

“Shadow People,” Daryl replied, turning his pale blue gaze to Rick, who couldn’t help remembering how they looked with his face covered in contouring lines and blood. “They know the balance is off, an’ they think yer ta blame.” 

“Me?” Rick blanched. “Wha’ did I do?” 

Daryl narrowed his eyes at the other boy, “Oh, I don’ kno, maybe they's don’ like you snoopin’ on their sacred ground, or tramblin’ all ov’r the altars” he pointed through the walls to the direction the platform stood outside, “OR maybe yous _spyin’_ on-“

“OKAY! Okay, stupid question, sorry,” Rick grumbled out. Daryl sighed in a huff through his nose, that might have been a laugh if Rick didn’t know better, settling against the wall again, this time regarding Rick instead of the tin box in his hand. Rick noticed, and looked away from the boys penetrating gaze in hopes he would stop, before glancing back to see Daryl hadn’t budged. “What?”

“You followed us from here, didn’t ya?” Rick didn’t even have to nod, he could feel his face heat up in embarrassment of being caught. “Why were ya out here? Aga’n.” _When you specifically told me to not come back_ , Rick thought to himself, but thought better to voice his addition as Daryl didn’t break his searching gaze. 

“I…” Rick rolled his shoulder, shifting a bit under such scrutiny, “I found some markings on the doors, at my grandma’s house. I saw them here, at that altar you have.” Daryl’s eyes had widened a bit in surprise at Rick’s reason. “I just… wanted to see if they matched. I had to be sure.”

“Where did ya see ‘em? Wha’ door?” Daryl asked, doing a good job at hiding his alarm and curiosity.

“Everywhere,” Rick answered. He would’ve taken pleasure in finally being able to astonish the other boy, whose life seemed to be immersed in this magic, but he was still worried about his family at home. “Do you- do ya think they will protect my mom? Like they protect you here?” 

Daryl looked away, not able to meet the other’s glance, but Rick caught his eyes soften a little bit before tearing his gaze away. “Maybe,” he mumbled, tensing up and letting the silence of the forest fill in his awkward pauses. “Ya remember wha’ they look’d like?” 

Rick nodded quickly, “most of ‘em look kinda like an eye. And the eye’s always lookin’ towards the door.” 

“Mmm,” Daryl answered noncommittally, “it might, then, can’ say for sure.” 

Rick wasn’t going to take the silence that followed as a suitable answer. “So you know what they are?”

Daryl shrugged, seeming to have crossed some personal line in their questioning, and was closing in on himself with each passing second. No, Rick was having none of that. 

“Fine, I’ll show you later then, so we can see if they’re the same,” he answered for him, and Daryl’s glare was back on him in an instant.

“Wha’ makes ya think I’d help ya wit’ it?”

“You’re helping me now.”

“An’ look where that’s got me,” Daryl scowled. 

“You’ll still help. Ya won’t be able to stop thinkin’ about it, otherwise,” Rick taunted. “Ya’ll always wonder _‘whatever happen’ ta that nosy kid that was always snoopin’ on my witch-stuff’_ because I’ll have been _eaten_ or whatever by the shadow people-“

“Should’a lef’ ya in tha’ damn swamp,” Daryl muttered under his breath.

“-cause _someone_ didn’t take a damn look at the _witch-carvin’s_ all over my grandma’s house,” Rick sighed at him dramatically. Then leaned into his space, which the Dixon leaned away from in perfect tandem. 

“And,” he said with his most serious face. “I will haunt your ass forever if I die when I go home.”

“Ya ain’t gonna die, asshole,” Daryl growled at him but with no heat to his words, shoving Rick square in the chest to move the other boy to his side of the mattress again. 

“And why’s that?” Rick asked, fighting the smile twitching at his lips. “Las’ I checked them shadows would swoop down on me in a second if I stepped outside.”

“Cause I ain’t gonna let ya do anything tha’ stupid,” Daryl told him matter-o-factly. Rick paused at that, not sure if he should feel grateful to Daryl or annoyed that he thought Rick wasn’t able to watch after himself. “And,” Daryl added, lifting the tin box and rattling it, “because I have this.”

“What is it?” 

“Somethin’ tha’s gonna help,” Daryl answered, leaning over the side of his mattress and grabbing a few candles, lighting them as best he could. It was then that Rick noticed Daryl’s hands were shaking.

Rick reached for a few of the lit candles and placed them on his side of the mattress floor. “You okay?” he finally asked, the other boy’s weariness making Rick uneasy after seeing Daryl so strong and unafraid.

Daryl gave one stiff nod, focused on positioning the candles to give him better light before setting the tin box in front of him on the mattress. It wasn’t bigger than one of Rick’s summer reading books, and the painted top had rubbed away on all the corners and edges. Daryl opened it with care, removing the items from inside as if he were dealing with a living thing. 

Inside there were bones of a small animal, little cloth bags full of herbs and dirt, stones, some multicolor squares of cloth, a piece of treated leather folded over to be able to fit inside, and a few sewing needles and thick black thread. Daryl smiled a little when he found the needle and thread, though it came off as more of a grimace, and finally sat up and forward with his legs crossed. He threaded one of the needles, and then set his injured arm in front of him and directly in the firelight. Rick’s eyes widened like saucers, he was going to put in his own stitches!

“I-“ Rick couldn’t stop himself, blurting out just as Daryl was about to pierce the skin on his arm. The other boy’s gaze snapped up to him in an instant. “I can do tha’ for ya.” Daryl narrowed his eyes at him in confusion, which must have matched Rick’s own expression. Why was he offering to stitch up Daryl’s arm! Rick had never stitched up _skin_ before, and Daryl looked like he had done this many times, so Rick didn’t know why he couldn’t stop _talking_. “I- my grandma taught me how to cross-stitch, so I could patch up my own clothes. If ya want help.” Daryl regarded the other boy for a moment, before shaking his head a bit in what could have easily been amusement. 

“Nah, I go’ it,” he answered, finally turning back to his arm and only letting out a small hiss as he pulled the needle through his skin for the first stitch. Rick had then found absolutely _everything_ else in the room way more interesting than Daryl Dixon OR the open wound on his arm. 

“Sorry,” he found himself saying. “I forgot about your arm for a while, does it- does it hurt?”

A low sigh was let out through what sounded like Daryl’s nose, Rick noticed he tended to not open his mouth for anything really. He saw with a quick glance that Daryl had his jaw clenched shut as he focused on his task. “Not as much as these damn sti’ches do,” Daryl grit out, finding a boost of energy from the pain and made quick work of the snakebite just above his wrist. Biting off the loose thread, Daryl shoved the needles and thread in the tin box and pushed it across the bed and away from the boys. Apparently whatever Daryl had had planned with the contents of the box, it was going to wait because the redneck was done with needles for a bit. 

With a quick shimmy, Daryl dug his lightly crushed cigarette box out of his pocket and had a lit one between his teeth before Rick could blink. His whole body relaxed against the wall as he took the first few drags, before his eyes found Rick’s and he looked between the boy and the cigarette. Seeming to find his manners, he handed the lit cigarette to Rick like a peace offering. Rick shook his head of dark curls resolutely, looking away from Daryl quickly.

“Don’t like cigarettes,” he muttered.

Daryl was silent beside him. “Ya’ve tried one?”

“Nope,” Rick shook his head. “An’ I don’t need too.”

Daryl snorted, taking another drag. “So ya wan’ me ta stop?”

Rick shrugged. “I don’ care if _you_ smoke, I just don’t want to. I had some bad stuff happen, because of ‘em, so I don’t want one.” 

Daryl huffed through his nose again, looking at his cigarette with an unreadable expression on his face. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I ge’ tha’.” He was quiet for a minute, and Rick was very happy about that cause he was currently trying to push away memories he would rather not think about. “So wha’,” Daryl finally added, his voice light and joking, “did ya Pa go ou’ for cigs and nev’r come back?” When Rick looked back at him, the boy had a smirk on his face and Rick almost felt bad that he couldn’t smile back at him. The smirk dropped off of Daryl’s face pretty quickly after that. “Oh.” His hair covered his eyes and most of the embarrassed flush that crept across Daryl’s face as he leaned over to put out his cigarette as a distraction. Then it was a cough, and resolutely _not_ looking at Rick. “Sorry.”

Rick nodded, also looking into the nothingness of the room. “t’s alright. t’s not what ya think, either.” Rick settled back against the wall again, Daryl mimicking him and doing his best to not look like he was watching the other. “He got caught in a robbery at the mini-mart, the bad guy recog’nized him, so he shot him.”

“Why’d he reco’nize him?” Daryl asked.

“My dad was a cop,” Rick said, looking over at Daryl to see the other boy tense at the words. “He was just a beat cop, but tha’ meant he knew everyone. He probably knew who the bad guy was, and that’s why he died. At least that’s what my mom says.” 

Daryl nodded stiffly next to him, looking to be closing back in on himself, and Rick sighed at the other boy’s behavior. “We don’t have to talk about it,” Rick supplied, crossing his arms and looking away from the other boy once more. “People don’t ever get it anyway.”

Clearing his throat, Daryl spun the pack of cigarettes between his fingers, he made to open his mouth, but once again had a few false starts. “My momma burn’d our house down,” he finally got out. Rick’s attention snapped back to him. “She…” a quick cough, resettling himself so he was sitting up straighter and leaning further away from Rick. “She drank a’lot, an’ smok’d a’lot, and… she fell asleep ‘n bed, wit’ a cig still lit ‘n her hand.” He gestured with his hands a bit, seeming to busy himself and not make eye contact. “The whol’ house wen’ up, I didn’ know ‘til the kids ‘roun’ here start’d chasin’ the fire trucks.”

Every bit of Rick wanted to do something to comfort the other boy, but he just knew that if he tried it would not be well received. It had happened a while ago, the pain wasn't as fresh as Ricks was. Maybe, Daryl just wanted to tell him this to tell him he’s not alone, and they didn’t need to do any of the mushy stuff his mother’s friends had showered Rick with when his father died months ago. Rick hadn’t wanted a hug when his father was killed, or to be told that everyone was here for him, he wanted someone to tell him that… sometimes bad stuff happens for no good reason, and there are other people who knew how he felt. And they turned out fine. When Rick looked at Daryl all he saw was strength, Daryl was tough, smart, and no matter what would always be alright. Rick wanted to be like that too. 

So he sat there, mimicking Daryl’s earlier sentiment of “’m sorry.” And the boys understood each other, they didn’t need to speak of dead parents anymore. 

“So,” Rick said, once the silence was getting to him again, watching Daryl drag the tin box back to his spot on the mattress and start digging through its contents one more. “Ya didn’t live in White Oak before this?”

Daryl snorted, not looking up, “I’v _always_ liv’d in Whi'te Oak, we liv’d ri’te up the road a ways.”

“Then who’s house is this?”

“Nain’aine,” Daryl answered. The name was so foreign it tore through Daryl’s backwoods accent like a butcher knife. “She go’ too old ta stay up here alone, she liv’s wit’ her sister now.”

Rick thought of how out of place the altar out back looked compared to the house, and for some reason he couldn’t keep his mouth shut around Daryl Dixon. “She built the altar out back?” Daryl met his gaze for a moment, nodded at his deductions, and went back to what he was doing. Dirt stained hands stitching together the cloth pieces in close knit sutures. “Who is she, your Nanaine?”

A smirk tugged at the Dixon’s lips at how badly Rick butchered the name. “Nain’aine,” he repeated. “I guess… she’s like a Godmoth’r, kinda.”

“My momma knew her, from wh’n she was little. She’s the one ta teach us abou’ the Lwa an’ how to respec’ ‘em. ‘Bout the forest, and the Lwa ‘n the swamps, ‘n the trees, an’ ‘n some o’ the animals ou’ there. If ya treat ‘em ri’te, an’ know how ta ask, the Lwa will watch ov’r an’ protect ya. Or do anythin’ ya ask for.”

“Is that what ya’ll were doing,” Rick asked. “Out there, in the clearing?”

Daryl nodded, only a little hesitantly, “I don’… I don’ remember much, af’er tha’ rattler bit me.” The boy still looked exhausted from his earlier ordeal, and Rick blinked in surprise that anyone could _forget_ such a thing. Daryl must have caught the look on his face. “When tha’ happens, bein’ possessed by Lwa, you ain’t suppose’ ta remember. Tha’ means it was real.” 

“Yeah, well-,” Rick swallowed hard. “Ya don’t want to, really. It was bad, scary. You said some stuff, though I couldn’t understand a thang you said, it was in some other language.”

Daryl nodded, but got distracted from his work as the windows rattled again, only fainter than before. Just the summer breeze pushing on the broken glass and wire mesh. The shadow people seemed to have left them alone, for the time being. “Sometimes,” he started, but it took him a minute to find what he wanted to say, Rick was learning to be patient with the other boy. Whatever Daryl had to say, if he was going to say it out loud, was important enough to wait. “I think, the way my Pa and Merle do thin’gs, is wrong.”

“What do ya mean?”

“They don’- _listen_ to Nain’ no more, or follow the rituals like they’r suppose’ to. I think it’s makin’ the Lwa ang’ry, an’ that’s why it ge’s so quie’ ‘round here. They’s chasin’ all the game away, as punishment; the only tracks I found ou’side today were yours,” he finished, giving the other boy a slightly amused look. 

A small laugh escaped Rick, embarrassment tinting his cheeks again but he couldn’t stop the smile that broke out across his face. “Sorry,” he said again. “’m not that quiet.” About as subtle as a fucking elephant, if he was being honest. 

“No shit,” Daryl answered, and made this quiet breathy sound that Rick realized was a _laugh_. A genuine laugh, and a small but _real_ smile pulling at his lips. This time Rick had no problem smiling back.

-

The summer breeze changed directions during the night, the blanket covering the window now moving with it in short sways. A particularly strong gust made the blanket flap far enough that a sliver of bright sunlight found its way into Daryl Dixon’s room and right across Rick’s face. Squinting a bit in disdain, Rick groaned and buried his face into the pillow he had been using. It had to be too early, he was still so exhausted he felt like he had barely slept, and his legs ached something awful from all the running he had done during the night. The scratches on his face itched when he moved, and his whole body felt heavy and warm. 

It took Rick a minute to realize he wasn’t home, but part of him was still too tired to care. Shifting a bit to get more comfortable, Rick found he couldn’t move as much as he would have liked because something _heavy_ was pinning him down. Lifting his head and looking over his shoulder as best he could, he was alarmed to find Daryl curled around him like a little kid with a stuffed animal, tan arm draped over his middle and head of unruly dirty-blonde hair buried between Rick’s shoulder blades. 

The entire evening’s events came back to him slowly as he watched Daryl puff warm breath into his T-shirt; the clearing, the ritual, Daryl being possessed, the Shadow people chasing them all through the swamp and then cornering them in Daryl’s bedroom, them talking about everything and nothing at all. _Shit_ , he must have fallen asleep when they were talking, watching Daryl stitch together whatever he had been making the night before. Rick needed to get back, before his mom and grandma noticed he was gone. If the sun was up they probably already knew! 

If they were still okay.

Rick also remembered what Daryl had said about the markings on his house, how they _may_ have protected his family but he wasn’t completely sure. Surely Rick would know, somehow, if his family wasn’t alright. Either way, he needed to get home. 

First he had to pry himself from Daryl’s grasp. He didn’t think Daryl would appreciate being caught cuddling Rick like a teddy bear. 

Slowly inching towards to edge of the mattress, Rick moved his legs first from where Daryl had wrapped one around his ankle, and then tried to slide out from under the other boy’s arm. Luckily the mattress was on the floor, so Rick could use the floorboards as leverage to pull himself off the bed without waking up Daryl. 

Or he _would_ have, if he hadn’t been suddenly kicked from the warm mattress to the cold wooden floor. 

Daryl had scrambled back, still lying down but his back was now against the wall and he had propped himself up enough to see the intruder in his room, blinking blearily at the other boy. He must have realized what he’d done before Rick did, mumbling a “sorry” as he rubbed at his eyes; Rick wondered if he looked as exhausted as Daryl did. Although, Daryl did get bit by a snake and possessed and chased through the forest last night, so he had every right to still look tired. 

“’t’s alright,” Rick answered, sitting up but not getting back on the mattress. “I tired not’ta wake ya.”

Daryl huffed at him through his nose again, and Rick was starting to realize that was the boy’s way of laughing, “won’t do ya no good, everythin’ wakes me up.” It seemed Daryl didn’t know he had been half on top of Rick moments before, or he was just choosing to ignore it, either way they weren’t talking about it and that settled the squirmy feeling Rick had in his stomach. Daryl looked towards the window, seeing the blanket still covering the window and the sunlight glowing through the fabric. “Shit, is it mornin’?” 

Rick nodded, “Yeah, I gotta get home ‘fore my Mom sees I’m gone.” 

“Or ‘fore my Pa sees ya here,” Daryl added, a sudden urgency appearing as he climbed off of his bed and went towards the bedroom door, placing his ear against the wood for a tense moment. Rick forced his boots back on his swollen feet, and made to stand just behind the other boy. 

“I didn’t hear anyone come back last night,” Rick whispered to him, not wanting to interrupt whatever he was doing.

“Mmm,” Daryl answered, his face drawn into a scowl as he listened more intently. “Me neither,” he finally muttered after a minute, stepping back and eyeing the door as if it had personally wronged him. “I’ma step out, ya follow close behind me, ya hear?” Rick nodded to him, and then watched Daryl open the door as quietly as he could and slip through the small opening he made. 

The house now had streams of golden sunlight filtering through all the windows, and it was then that Rick realized there were no lights in the house. The windows were placed strategically so they could light most areas of the house from the sunlight outside. They crept along the hallway, Daryl trying to look around the corner and into the living room to see if anyone was there. He stopped abruptly, causing Rick to run straight in to him. Merle was snoring loudly on the couch, and the twins had moved some stuff around and found make-shift areas to sleep on. There was no sign of Daryl’s Pa. 

Daryl’s footsteps made no sound at all as he picked his way through the debris along the floor, barely glancing down to see if anything was in his way. Rick, however, could _not_ move as silently, and winced at every creaky floorboard or dead leaf or piece of plastic that crunched under his boots. It was agony trying to reach that other room, but they made it without waking the young men in the living room. Daryl opened the door with a quick jolt and a short stop with his other hand, the window panes rattling as he opened it and a loud squeak of the rusted hinges stopped with his hand. He kept his eyes on the entry way to the kitchen, listening intently for any other noises in the house, before ushering Rick outside through the small gap he had made, not daring to open it any further. Once they were both outside and Daryl had shut the door as quietly as he could, he let Rick lead the way through the back yard and past the raised platform with the altar and back into the woods. 

Rick took them up the hill, having to look back every now and then because he couldn’t _hear_ Daryl behind him, though the boy was right there every time with just a few feet distance. It took him a few minutes to find his bike, and the Dixon had to help him be retracing his tracks from the night before, but they found it leaned up against a tree just off the road, right where Rick left it. Daryl found it first, picking it up and setting it past the tree line on the gravel road.

Grasping the dew covered handlebars, Rick found himself watching Daryl again; the redneck was watching the house down the hill, and checking the immediate area, although Rick wasn’t sure if he even knew he was constantly surveying his surroundings. 

“Thank you,” Rick said, his voice breaking their steady silence along with the sound of birds chirping in the distant morning. Daryl finally looked back at Rick, pale blue eyes zeroing in on him once more. “For everythang.” Daryl shrugged, looking down uncomfortably. “I mean it,” Rick pressed, not moving until Daryl nodded, glancing up at him shyly through his bangs. Rick swung his leg over his bike, still not ready to leave their strange adventure/nightmare, but knowing he needed to get back before anyone noticed he hadn’t come home. 

“I’ll see ya around, yeah?” Rick tried, giving the other boy an out as he shuffled his feet awkwardly, looking one second from just bolting instead of trying to end their conversation. Daryl shrugged at him, before seeming to catch himself and nodded instead. Rick smiled one of his toothy grins he could never hold back, “Good. And don't think I forgot about those witch-carvin's, neither." Daryl sighed at him, but nodded all the same. "Later, Daryl,” and he pushed his bike forward. 

“Lat’r, Rick,” he heard Daryl say behind him, before disappearing back into the trees.

It wasn’t until Rick was over the hill that he stopped his bike, looking back towards the Dixon house with startled and wide blue eyes.

He had never told Daryl his name.


	6. Water and Ash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left me comments and kudos, they really help me motivate myself when I get stuck or when I'm really tired after work and want to drown myself in Netflix. You all are wonderful and I don't think I could have written this much without the support. We've hit 30,000 words, and still counting!
> 
> So I finally wrapped up age 13 this chapter, honestly I didn't think I would spend this long on it but I'm glad I did, I got a lot more detail into what I had planned out. But we're finally having Rick and Daryl and Shane grow up a bit after this chapter. This one is a little different, but still super long, I get crazy anxiety from dialouge scenes but those boys love to _talk_ , especially Shane. 
> 
> Anyway, no warnings for this chapter, we just get a lot of background about the town and Rick's family and home, some slight suggestions towards abuse when we talk about Daryl, but everyone should have been expecting that. It'll get worse later, and I'll warn you all before that happens.
> 
> Once again all mistakes are mine, this is unbeta'd excpet for my edits, hope you enjoy it!

“Did you just come from the Dixon place?” 

Rick had been so caught up in his own head that he didn’t even see Shane on the other side of the road, standing over his bike with wide, dark eyes watching Rick peddle from the back country road and onto the paved streets. His bike skidded as Rick’s whole body jolted in surprise, almost crashing his bike into the ravine off the side of the road if he hadn’t gotten his feet off the peddles and underneath him fast enough.

“Shane!” he exclaimed, grasping his handlebars harder than necessary. “Ya scared the shit outta me!”

Shane grinned that toothy grin of his, like a cat that had snatched a mouse, his eyes dancing at having caught Rick so early in the morning doing something he _knew_ would get him in trouble. “Ya didn’t stay the night or nothin’, did ya?”

“No!” Rick said too quickly, his face turning red the longer he stood there. “I mean, why would I-why would’ya think that? I was just- checking something… at that… altar-thing we found yesterday,” Rick stumbled over his words. But Shane’s knowing smirk didn’t drop off his face, and it was fraying Rick’s already rattled nerves. “What?” he snapped at Shane.

“Yer wearing the same clothes ya wore yesterday.”

Rick sputtered, “Shut up!” 

Shane’s grin near split his face, “Ya _did_ stay there last night! Why did ya go back? How did Old Man Dixon not skin ya alive?” Rick was looking at everything except that _stupid_ grin on his friend’s face.

“I- I went back to look at that altar, damnit, I’ll explain everythang on the way, just follow me?” Rick pleaded, though he knew the other boy would follow him no matter what. Not much happened in their small town, Shane wouldn’t pass up the opportunity.

“Where we goin’? An’ explain what?” Shane demanded even as he turned his bike around and the boys took off down the road.

“My house, ya gotta cover for me. Say I was at your house last night,” Rick explained as they made their way to the plantation road. “I told my mom I was going to see you after supper, when I went to look at the stuff on the altar, so just say I fell asleep or somethin’ so I don’t get into trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Shane agreed. “But if your momma calls my momma I can’t help ya.”

“Fine,” Rick sighed, turning onto the winding path that led up to his grandparents’ estate. 

It was still pretty early in the day, the sun shining golden and bright from beyond the sea of trees that surrounded his grandparents’ house, a thick blanket of moving green leaves and branches and moss that stretched for miles. Rick couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of what the swamps held deep inside the mass of trees, and not so far from where he and his family had been sleeping at night. The clearing where the Dixon’s did their rituals, the shadow people that hid in the tree canopy’s and had chased Rick and Daryl all the way back to the Dixon property. And just a few miles through that forest, Rick was reminded that Daryl’s house had been there all along, he hadn’t always lived there but Daryl had always been within reach when Rick had searched the swamps for the clearing, and he had never once ran into the other boy or his Nainaine’s house. It was like that place was protected, and the swamp had led Rick in circles all those times he was out there to lead him away from the Dixon property and back to grandparents’ estate.

The old plantation house was in need of a fresh coat of paint, but the off white color still caught the early morning sun and soaked it up like a sponge. The whole house seemed to glow gold, and the summer breeze cut around the edges of the house and made the fresh air smell like cedar and Spanish moss and dried clay. The air was so crisp from the remnants of the night that had just ended that it filed Rick’s lungs with a cold and fresh feeling and it rejuvenated him and woke him up fully, the breeze pushing against him as he and Shane followed the winding gravel road through the estate. It made him stretch out his sore muscles and his skin tingled at the combination of the cool morning breeze and the warm sun breaking out over the trees. That was, until he caught sight of his mother standing on the front porch with her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. Needless to say Rick involuntarily started shrinking into a smaller and smaller target, becoming one with his bike, though it would do nothing to save him.

“RICHARD GRIMES WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!” 

Dropping his bike to the dew covered grass in front of the house, he ran up the steps to keep her from yelling to all creation how much trouble he was in. Despite Shane’s snickering in the background.

“I’m sorry Mom, I fell asleep at Shane’s last night,” Rick pleaded with his Mom, but standing a few steps down and out of arm’s reach just in case his mom grabbed him by the ear. His mother was a hearty woman, short and a little stout, her curly dark hair a disheveled mess which indicated she had noticed Rick’s absence almost immediately and hadn’t had time to get herself ready for the day. Rick prayed she hadn’t called the local Sheriff’s department or anything. Her bright green eyes still held a slight panic to them, as well as a little hint of relief, combined with her frown Rick wasn’t sure if she was going to hug him or strangle him. Possibly both.

“It’s true Mrs. Grimes,” Shane piped up from the yard, leaning heavily on his bike. Rick bristled a bit at his friends attempt at helping, knowing the teasing tone would only make his Mom more suspicious, thanks a bunch Shane. Luckily she didn’t pay him much mind.

“And what happened to your _face_ ,” his Mom exclaimed, closing the distance Rick had put between them and grabbing her son’s chin, moving it this way and that to get a look at all the scrapes and cuts.

“I-It was an accident mom, it’s nothin’ just a couple’a scratches.”

“He fell inta that prickly bush in my Ma’s garden,” Shane supplied, a grin spreading across his face. “It was pretty funny, actually.”

His Mom huffed at the two. “What am I gonna do with you,” she sighed, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry Mom,” Rick said again, putting on his most convincing apology face and doing his best to not look away from his Mom’s eyes, then she’d just _know_ he was hiding something. “I know I shoulda called, but I panicked when I saw it was mornin’ and just came straight here.”

His Mom sighed again, “Well, thank God for that. Next time a call would be better, okay?” she reasoned, smoothing down his unruly curls. 

“Okay, Mom,” Rick smiled a small smile up at her, trying to still look a little guilty. She hugged him close for a minute, seeming to let out her first sigh of relief, before she shooed the boys into putting their bikes in the shed and told them to wash up for breakfast.

“You and yer damn big blue eyes,” Shane laughed, shaking his head. “Ya could get away with murder, I bet, and yer momma would just pat ya on the head and bake ya a pie.”

“Shut up Shane,” Rick mumbled with a blush spreading across his face, leading the way as they walked their bikes behind the house. “And no she wouldn’t! She’d ground me at least,” he shot back with a cheeky grin.

“Asshole,” Shane laughed, shoving him with his shoulder as they opened up Rick’s Grandpappy’s toolshed to store their bikes. “Now, ya said you’d explain, so spill,” he demanded, crossing his arms and giving Rick his undivided attention. 

A slow smile crept up Rick’s face as he shut the shed door, grabbed Shane’s arm, pulled him forward until he could properly see the doorframe, and pointed at the hourglass shape. “That,” he grinned, “is a witch’s mark, and I _know_ I saw it on that altar out back of Daryl’s house. I went to see if it matched.” Shane’s eyes were wide as saucers, looking like he wanted to touch the marking by the door and burn down the shed at the same time. 

“You serious,” he asked incredulously, not moving an inch but the muscles in his crossed arms were all corded tension.

“As a heart attack,” Rick replied with a smirk. Pausing as he took in the other boy’s defensive stance, pretty sure he should give him a few before launching into his detailed story. Rick looked behind them cautiously, toward the towering shadow of the old plantation house standing vigil and every inch a representation of his Mom and Grandmother’s concerned scrutiny. Even now, he could feel their eyes watching them from the sun-kissed glass windows, waiting anxiously for them to return to the confines of the house. 

At least, he hoped it belonged to them, and not something else. 

Rick suddenly became painfully aware of the door that had shut on its own the night before, and that there was something other than the horrifying shadow people that might be inside his grandparents’ house. And that he needed to tell Shane about the shadow people, that he almost died, that he was _convinced_ that Daryl had been almost killed by his own family. Rick swallowed the lump in his throat that had appeared, not sure where to begin or even _how_ , so instead he asked the first thing that popped into his head.

“Do you want to see the others?”

Shane’s wide eyes were on him so fast Rick was surprised he didn’t stumble from whiplash.

He’d explain everything after breakfast.

\--

It may have been easy to placate his Mom when it came to being out all night, but Rick should’ve known better than to hope that would be the end of it. He wasn’t in Kentucky anymore, just having to bat his big blue eyes at his Mom, apologies already leaving his lips that were slowly losing their childish pout. Standing on the porch of their little two-story brick townhouse, settled between similar houses that were a bit taller with trees sprouting up where they could, roots breaking through and jostling the pavement of the sidewalks along their street. 

No, he was in Georgia, and he had completely forgotten that he also had to answer to his Grandmother. 

Really, he should have known better.

The scolding that was unleashed made him feel all of two feet tall, five years old again and being reprimanded for running in the house and knocking a vase off a table that had shattered into small pieces. All Rick could do was hang his head in shame and accept it, but he wouldn’t lie that there was a small seed of joy planted when Shane got caught snickering this time and was instantly roped into his punishment of various chores around the estate. It was worth every second of that tongue-lashing to see Shane Walsh go red as a tomato and clamp his mouth shut to avoid further attention being brought to his seat at the table. Rick’s Grandmother was a force to be reckoned with.

The boys washed up the breakfast dishes in silence for the first few minutes, Rick couldn’t tell if Shane was pissed or not, so he tried to distract him from the dark look in his eyes by splashing soapy water in his face. The water war that launched was also worth the shriek from his Mother about making a mess of the kitchen, just to see that bright wicked smile spread across Shane’s face and chase away whatever dark emotion had been settled in his eyes. Even though Shane totally won and Rick was soaked to the bone. 

All across the lawns of the estate were bits and pieces of the swamp on the grass in between the trees that stood tall and broad and towering; bits of branch and old dried Spanish moss, rotting peaches that had been discarded by nature from the trees, wilting magnolias and shriveled up leaves. With black trash bags in hand, Rick and Shane spent a good few hours in the rising July sun cleaning up the grounds; and it was here, out of earshot of Rick’s Mom and Grandparents, that Rick regaled Shane with his adventure the night before.

Shane had a tendency to interrupt Rick’s stories with exclamations, or little jabs that he was lying, like when Rick got to the part about the ritual being done and Daryl being possessed after being bitten by the diamondback rattlesnake. And Daryl seeing him, and chasing him into the forest, and the discovery of the shadow people that were haunting Rick’s every step since he was eight years old. But something about the look on Rick’s face, how he turned his blue eyes to his friend without arguing his point further, made the other boy stop his teasing. 

“…yer serious,” Shane said.

“He almost died, Shane,” Rick pressed, snapping a large branch in half with his boot, before jamming the remains in the trash bag. “An’ I would’a died too, if he hadn’t chased after me.”

Silence didn’t suite his friend, like it did Daryl, it made Shane’s eyes seem darker and a much more sinister emotion settled into his features. He was thinking hard about something, but not voicing his thoughts, and it made a feeling of dread form in Rick’s stomach. Anger and something violent seemed to simmer just beneath the surface, and Rick knew he had to continue the story and drag Shane out of whatever place he had gone off to in his mind, because whatever Shane was thinking Rick was feeling that he was blaming Daryl when he should be thanking him.

“Anyway,” Rick said a little louder, clearing his throat a bit and moving them further from the house, “Daryl brought me back to his house, and we hid inside.”

“You were actually _inside_ the Dixon house!?!” Shane asked out of the blue, and Rick’s shoulders lost a bit of the tension that had been building up at his friend’s tone, back to incredulous and awed instead of low and angry. “What’s it like?”

“Kinda messy,” Rick answered with a laugh, “Daryl’s room isn’t, but the rest of it is just full of _stuff_. Like they never throw anything away.” Rick went on to explain the different items Daryl grabbed, the goofer dust that was put at every window and door, and how the boys ended up barricading themselves in Daryl’s room until it was safe to come out. 

There was a small, selfish part of him that kept Rick from telling Shane about all that he and Daryl had talked about the night before. Rick hadn’t even really talked to Shane about what had happened with his Father, even though everyone in White Oak knew, they hadn’t been friends before it had happened. But Shane had enough decency and attentiveness to know to side step any conversations that came up between the two boys, and never pressed when Rick had the fleeting thought that he _wanted_ to confide in his friend. But in the end, he was glad he didn’t, there wasn’t much Shane could have said to Rick that would have helped him, the wound was still too fresh. Daryl had been just the right person, and though he hadn’t handled it with the most tact, Rick somehow felt a little better, finally given the reassurance that _yes_ , you do move on. 

He also knew he had no place to tell Shane anything Daryl had confided in him, that was Daryl’s past, Daryl’s suspicions about his family, and the Lwa, and those conversations would stay with him. Rick would keep them close, Shane wouldn’t appreciate them the same way Rick did, or even understand. So he drifted over that part of the night, merely shrugging when Shane asked what they did while they waited, “just talked a lot.”

“’Bout what?” 

“A lot of stuff, I really don’t remember it all, that’s kind of when I fell asleep.”

“Wait, you fell asleep in his room?” Shane asked, a smile twitching at his lips, “On his bed?”

“Yeah, he was making somethang, and it was late, and we just ran all over those damn woods so I was gettin’ _really_ tired-“ Rick stopped himself when he caught sight of Shane doubled over with shaking shoulders. “What?” Shane just shook his head, trying to look at Rick and then falling into another fit of laughter. Rick scowled, “What’s so funny?”

“Ya had a sleepover with _Daryl Fucking Dixon_ ,” Shane near shrieked, not able to keep the laughter from spilling over as he lost himself in hysterics.

“Shut up, Shane,” Rick growled at him. “I just-“

“Is his hair long enough to braid yet?”

“Shut _up_ Shane!” Rick yelled, his voice cracking a little bit. “I just fell asleep while we waited for the fucking shadows to go away.”

“My, my what a dirty mouth you’ve gotten,” Shane teased. “And I know it wasn’t me, cause ya never talked like that before last night. What has Daryl been teaching you,” his friend leered.

“Oh it’s ALL your fault, Shane Walsh, and you’re the first person I’ma name if my Mom catches me,” Rick snapped back.

Shane gasped in mock horror, “You wouldn’t.” 

“Oh I would,” Rick stated, turning on his heel and stalking off back towards the house.

“Wait, Rick,” Shane called, still out of breath and laughing, but chasing after his friend all the same. “No, I’m sorry Rick!” Rick wasn’t even mad anymore, Shane’s laughter just as contagious as it had been the day before, but he took off in a sprint when he heard Shane catching up to him. “ _No_ Rick, come’on man, I’m _sorry_!”

\--

It was a full week before Rick saw Daryl again.

For the first few days Rick didn’t even leave the estate, and for the rest of that night Shane didn’t leave his side. After finishing the list of chores that were deviled out as punishment, they spent the remainder of the day searching every inch of the estate. Rick pointed out all the markings on the doors and fences and items that hadn’t moved for decades, and Rick finally had confirmation from someone else who had seen the altar that the symbols _did_ match the ones from the Dixon property.

Shane ended up staying over, the boys staying up late into the night and listening to all the creaking of the old plantation house, the older boy’s eyes wide and expression anxious and excited at the thought of staying the night in a haunted house.

“It ain’t haunted, Shane.”

“If the door opened on its own, then it damn well _is_ haunted! We’re gonna catch ourselves a ghost, Ricky.”

_“Don’t call me that!”_

It was long after the adults went to bed that the two boys crept out into the dark empty hallways, the shadows that stretched along the walls and around the corners making Rick’s heart-rate pick up from the memories of the night before. Their footsteps were anything but quiet, the Georgian heat and their adrenaline-based fear making their bare feet stick to the hardwood floors. It wasn’t long before their bumping into each other in the darkness and the ruckus they made in the halls got them caught, yelled at about the hour, and herded into their bedroom by Rick’s very angry Mother. There they huddled under a mountain of blankets and spent the rest of the night speculating every creaky wooden floor board or groaning water pipe that echoed through the house. But they never once encountered anything resembling what had occurred before in the mud room the day before.

If there was one trait Rick would learn about his friend in the upcoming years, it was that Shane was very impatient when it came to endeavors that did not heed results. If they got not results then whoever planned it was useless, the whole event became boring, and the activity needed to be put to an end. Quickly. And a new plan needed to be made just as promptly. Shane considered his time precious, and his need to do something either fun or useful drove pretty much every waking moment of every day. But that would be later, when he was older; for now, at 13, his impatience meant Shane was just bored.

The following afternoon Rick and Shane had quietly snuck into the library on the top floor, it was dusty and warmer than any other room in the house, filled with towering bookshelves that were over-flowing with volumes that probably hadn’t seen any attention in years. Rick knew that if anyone would have information on the strange happenings in White Oak, it would probably be his Grandmother. The town didn’t have a library, the old one having burned down some many years before Rick was born and White Oak never had the funds to rebuild it. The only public library was in the high school, and it was locked up for the summer, so they didn’t exactly have many options to begin with.

His Grandmother didn’t really have an organized system set up for her library, just sections that were relevant to her and her alone: non-fiction and fiction, what she considered romance or adventure, horror or history, a couple novels in foreign languages, and an entire bookshelf full of National Geographic magazines set up right under the window. It had been a few hours but Rick soon found himself settled between bookshelves, stacks of books piled around him about religions and history, plants and the Georgian ecosystem that was laid out just beyond his front lawn. He had found a few useful things in his random search. Something called “The Eye of Horus” in a book about ancient Egypt that _kind of_ looked like the symbol of the eye by all the doors, but not quite, and he had found a few of the plants from the altar in the botany encyclopedias. He was reading up on rattlesnake bites when he heard about the hundredth sigh echo from the old couch where Shane had stretched out in the afternoon sun like an over-grown house cat.

Seeming to have decided on something, Shane flipped over so he was leaning over the arm of the couch and was looking at Rick. “I’m bored,” he stated.

“You could help me,” Rick answered, not looking up from his paragraph, turning the page and wincing at the graphic photos of snake bites gone wrong, his stomach doing a queasy flip at the familiar sight of bubbling and blistering skin he had seen on Daryl’s wrist the other night.

“I don’t even know what’cha lookin’ for,” Shane mumbled, leaning heavy on his arm and staring unblinkingly at Rick like he could will him to shut his book by just looking at him. “Come’on, let’s go outside ‘fore the sun goes down, we can see all that stuff in those books out in the swamp.”

“Yeah we can see them, but that don’t mean I’ll know what they are,” Rick told him. “I spent all last summer in that damn forest, I know everythang that’s out there, but that don’t mean I understand what it is. I need to know what we’re getting into before we go running off again.”

“But I need to be _outside_ ,” Shane whined, sliding further down the couch. “Fresh air! I’m gonna suffocate in this fuckin’ attic.”

“Shane this shit is dangerous,” Rick snapped at him. “We could really mess stuff up if we trample all over a sacred ground or somethang else just as stupid. And I still think there’s somethang in this house.”

“I think yer delusional,” Shane grumbled again.

“I didn’t know ya could _spell_ delusional, let alone use it ina sentence.”

“ _Fuck you_ , asshole. Means you’re fucking senile! Like my Gran’ma who’s got dementia, thinking shit’s there when it really ain’t. We didn’t see nothin’ last night, and we barely slept at all. If there was somethin’ here it would’a shown itself, righ’?”

“I don’t know,” Rick sighed. “That’s why I’m reading all this stuff,” he lifted his book as an example. “Research! My dad always said ta do research when you’re out of your depth on a case. That’s what detectives do.”

“But we ain’t detectives, we’re kids, and there’s no case Rick! We should be out swimmin’ or hunting somethin’ or- OH!” Shane sat up quick, pushing himself up on his knees, excitement in his eyes again. “We could hunt for frogs! Ya ever hunt frogs! It’s fun, come’on, I’ll show ya,” he jumped up, already rushing over to grab Rick by the wrist, but the curly-haired boy resisted.

“Nah, Shane, I wanna stay here and see if I can find somethang useful.”

The older boy huffed in annoyance, that teenage anger simmering beneath the surface again, “Yer too damn stubborn, fine, but I’m going home.” Rick snapped his head up at that, looking like he was about to protest, but Shane interrupted. “My momma will be calling for supper soon anyway, we’re doing somethin’ fun tomorrow though,” he demanded, pointing at Rick who hadn’t gotten up from the floor but had finally looked away from his books. All Rick could do was nod, guilt already eating at him a bit for driving his friend away.

“Yeah, sure,” he answered lamely.

“Damn straight, later…. Ricky,” he smirked, making Rick scowl and chuck his book on snakes at his friend’s retreating back. Shane had heard his Mom call him that, and would probably never let him live it down.

_“Don’t fucking call me that!”_

\--

It seemed that it wasn’t until Rick was alone in his room that anything really started to happen. Rick had ended up turning down Shane’s offer to go learn how to catch frogs two days in a row, causing his friend’s scowl to deepen each time, until he just didn’t show up on the third day. Rick had spent those days pouring over books day and night, sometimes during the day stretching his legs by going back to each mark and trying to match them to whatever he had found in his search. He soon had each mark mapped out in his head, what each one looked like and where they were. There was 21 in total, and Rick was almost no closer to finding out what they were and why they were there than he was three days ago. Rick was torn between going to his Grandmother and finally confronting her about them, or making the journey back to the Dixon property and making good on his promise to Daryl to make him help.

And quite a few strange things started to happen, every time he stumbled across something that might be of use he would find himself walking into a door that he was _sure_ was open before, or books he _knew_ he had left in his room would suddenly be back upstairs on the shelf. For a while he thought it was his Grandmother, until he would hear over supper that she had spent all day weeding her garden with his Mom. Every time fear would shoot down his spine and settle uneasily in his stomach. Something was moving things in the house.

The one incident that stuck out the most was the day he was planning on going to Daryl’s to ask for the other boy’s help, he ended up spending over an _hour_ trying to find his matching boot that had somehow _magically_ disappeared during the night, and it wasn’t until the sun had started to set and it was too late for him to head out into the woods that he found it had ended up under his bed. That made his heart lodge in his throat when he realized whatever it was in his house had not only gone up three flights of stairs but also into _his_ bedroom and no one else’s.

He took small comfort in the fact it only seemed to have a problem with him.

Needless to say, after six days, he was stuck, and the stubborn streak in him didn’t want to give up but he was at a loss as to what to look for next. Who to speak to. What was safe for him and his family. And honestly, he needed a break from the endless texts and daunting magic that hung like a fog over the estate.

That’s probably what made it so easy for Shane the next day.

It wasn’t until Shane had dragged him out of his Grandparents’ house by the back of his shirt, shoving a pair of swim trunks in his face and almost forcibly putting him on his bike that Rick saw Daryl again. The boys were making their way to the Greene farm pond that all the kids used as a swimming hole, one that was thankfully without leeches. Doc Greene was the local veterinarian, all the townsfolk went to him for all their livestock concerns, and he and his newlywed wife didn’t have any kids yet, but they didn’t mind the locals hanging out on their farm. As long as they weren’t there after dark. Doc Greene liked his drink a little too much, and would holler at them none to quietly to get on home for supper if they stayed too long.

The Greene farm was kind of on the outskirts of town, past the turn off to the backwoods country, so as they peddled past Rick skidded his bike to halt as he caught the sight of familiar dirty-blonde hair in the late-July sun.

“HEY DARYL!”

Said boy whipped his head around, looking first for danger but upon seeing Rick with his curly dark hair and wide grin let his shoulders relax.

“We’re goin’ swimmin’ at Doc Greene’s, ya wanna come?” he yelled down to where Daryl was picking through the trees, obviously looking for something.

Daryl was quiet for a minute, looking between Rick and Shane, who was watching Rick like he’d grown an extra head. But after deciding something, he nodded at them, “Yeah, I’ll meet ya ther,” he called back.

“Okay,” Rick smiled, and pushed his bike forward again.

“What’re ya doin’?” Shane whispered so loud it really wasn’t a whisper, but they were out of earshot of Daryl anyway as the redneck retreated back towards his house.

“Daryl’s cool,” Rick shrugged. “I know ya’ll have hung out before, ya’ve said so about a hundred times.”

“Not lately,” Shane grumbled. “He’s gonna bail ya know.”

“He’s not gonna bail, Shane.”

“He _always_ bails.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”

Settled back into the far side of town where the hills got a little steeper and the wooded areas were more like a forest than a swamp was the Greene farm. About a dozen acres that were a wonderfully haphazard tangle of fenced off hay fields, hills blanketed in forests bordering the farmland, a few creeks weaving their way through the trees and meeting at a small swimming hole nestled next to a rock face cut into one of the hills. There were a few ponds out in the fields too, but those belonged to the cattle and were more muddy; the streams emptied out fresh water into the pool and made small waterfalls were they fell over the rock face.

When Shane and Rick arrived, there was already a half dozen kids jumping off the short cliffs, just barely missing the jutted out shale pieces and crashing into the cool water. No one was quite their age, but that just meant it was easier for Shane to boss them around, the other kids only a year or two younger than them following in his footsteps like ducklings. Rick participated with a small smirk quirking his mouth, but watchful eyes making sure Shane didn’t convince them to do anything incredibly stupid or dangerous, and Shane none the wiser as he relished in having a posse at his dispense.

About an hour had passed, the sun starting to dip towards the west but still blaring down on them unrelentlessly, when Rick spotted Daryl materializing out of the dense forest. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, or the condescending jab at his friend next to him with a hurried whisper of “told you he wouldn’t bail”. Shane scowled at him, and shoved him off of the rocks they were sitting on and into the water, stealing Rick’s greeting to the redneck and waving him over excitedly.

“’Bout time Daryl!” Shane shouted with a grin. “What took you so lo-“ Rick grabbed Shane by the ankles and yanked him into pool, pinning his arms and shoving his head under the water. Shane was stronger and managed to get out of his grip, shaking his head of black hair so it stuck out at jagged angles.

“Yer a dead man Grimes!” Shane’s threats fell on deaf ears as Rick scrambled out of the water, Daryl’s extended hand there to silently help him. “Just you wait!”

“Big talk _Walsh_ ,” he taunted before turning his attention to Daryl. “Glad you made it, we were startin’ ta wonder.” Daryl was already trying to hide behind his bangs, and starting to look like he might have regretted coming out to meet them. Rick was having none of that. “Come’on,” he snagged Daryl’s wrist, and dragged him up the steep incline to the top of the rocky cliff, Shane right on their heels.

“Ten points for each flip you make before hitting the water!” Shane declared, he had made up the game as soon as they had hit the swimming hole earlier, and was already in the lead by a couple dozen despite the point system not really having any merit. Rick rolled his eyes but agreed readily anyway, watching as Shane made a running start before jumping off the cliff into the water below. Daryl was already tugging off his shoes, smirking after the other boys as Rick grinned before following Shane over the side of the cliff, barely making a full flip before crashing into the cold water.

“Ya’ll gonna lose,” Daryl boasted from above them, only slightly hesitating before pulling his shirt over his head, and Rick could make out a few patterns across his skin, but the other boy was too far away to see what they were. It was really hard not to stare.

“Now who’s talkin’ big,” Shane shouted up to him from the water, splashing at Rick’s head of dark curls to knock him out of his stupor.

“Yeah,” Rick laughed distractedly. “Show us what’cha got!”

The triumphant grin on Daryl’s face before he jumped off the cliff, already knowing he could make three summersaults in the free fall to the water, was the biggest smile Rick had ever seen on the other boy’s face.

Daryl ended up winning that round.

-

The sky bled red and orange as the sun started to dip behind the hills of trees, and the boys had been at it for hours by the time the summer sky started to discolor and bruise. Shane had his following of younger kids back to doing his bidding, and Rick had collapsed on top of one of the lower outcroppings of rock trying to catch his breath from the water war that just ended. It took a long time to come to peace agreements.

Daryl pulled himself up out of the water and lay out next to him, more relaxed and happy than Rick had ever seen him. He looked like the kid he was supposed to be, 13 years old and full of energy, smirking (because he really didn’t smile all that much) and making jokes with this dry sense of humor that Rick was just learning to appreciate. It was almost enough to make Rick ignore the marks on his skin.

He hadn’t missed the hesitation Daryl had before he took off his shirt, and some of the other kids had pointed out the marks as well, but Daryl had shrugged them off with short annoyed glares and sharp insults, making excuses for each mark on his lightly tanned skin. There wasn’t that many, but that just seemed to make them stand out even more. Bruises from knocking into various things in the forest, hunting accidents, silver scars from learning to use his hunting knife and other weapons that Rick had seen on the walls of his house. Each story sounded plausible, and Daryl was very convincing, but Rick still couldn’t help the uneasy feeling in his stomach that some of the “wrestlin’ wit Merle” bruises might not be as friendly as Daryl was leading them to believe. But the boy had a fond expression on his face, if not slightly exasperated when describing how much his brother had to drink and that’s why Daryl ended up winning that fight, when he told the stories, so it must not have been as bad as Rick was thinking. He still didn’t like it, and had to fight to not stare at the marks, shame staining his cheeks when he did get caught. Because the look that would cross Daryl’s face when he realized what Rick was looking so hard at made him want to crawl into a hole in the ground.

“How’s yer arm?” Rick found himself asking, his thoughts of the few bruises and scars on Daryl made him remember the snake bite the other boy had to stitch up himself just a little over a week ago. Daryl narrowed his pale blue eyes at Rick in confusion, his squinted expression turning his eyes to slits, before realization dawned on him and he scoffed at the other boy.

“Fine,” he drawled. “Always heals up real quick, ‘cause it was from a rit’ual.” He caught Rick’s incredulous look and let out that huff through his nose in amusement. “I told’ja, the Lwa’ll take care o’ ya, if ya treat ‘em righ’.” Rick smiled, relief seeping into him, it was nice to be reminded that not everything about this magical world Daryl lived in was bad. It wasn’t all shadow people and shaking houses and ghosts moving his things in the middle of the night.

“How do ya get somethang to stop messing with ya?” Rick asked, mind wandering to all the shut doors and moved books, and his _boots_.

“What?”

“Whatever is in my house,” Rick clarified, sitting up and looking down at the redneck, noting his mistake when Daryl mimicked his movement and sat up as well, their eyes locking as they ignored the group of boys still making a ruckus in the water. “It’s gettin’ worse.”

“Ya jus’ need ta ignore ‘em,” Daryl told him, leaning on his knee while his other leg dangled over the ledge of the rock they sat on. “If ya try ta seek somethin’ ou’, it will seek ya ri’te back. Once they know ya know abou’ ‘em, they’ll come lookin’ fer you, you’ll nev’r be able to ge’ rid of ‘em.”

Rick swallowed hard at the thought, he had done a lot of poking around the estate the past week. There was no doubt that whatever was in his grandparents house knew he was looking for them.

“I think they already know,” Rick told him, causing Daryl to tilt his head at him in question, “they keep moving my stuff. They hid one of my boots under my bed.”

“Ya sure ya didn’t just kick it there?”

“I took them off at the front door,” Rick narrowed his eyes at him, “My Mom would skin me alive if I dragged dirt through the house.” This only seemed to make Daryl laugh at him.

“Yeah,” Daryl smirked, “they know ya know about ‘em. Best to jus’ let ‘em be, it ain’t the shadow people. They ain’t able ta ge’ past those door markin’s.” Rick’s eyes widened and he was once again staring at the redneck.

“You remember?” Rick asked, his blue eyes wide and astonished. Daryl nodded, picking at the dirt under his nails, anything to not lock eyes with Rick in that moment. He always did that, when he was helping, or Rick was thanking him. It was just another thing about Daryl that Rick was accepting and not bringing up; the boy was a little strange, but with how his family was Rick didn’t hold it against him one bit. Not able to help the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smile, he was about to thank the boy again when a holler came from across the quarry. No real words, just a loud form of verbal protest.

“It’s Doc Greene, let’s go!” Shane called up to them, breaking the moment between the other two boys, making them scramble to their feet and run to pick up all their clothing and roughly tug their shoes onto wet feet. Rick and Shane were already climbing on their bikes, and the other kids and Daryl were scattering into the woods in different directions. The boys actually had a hard time keeping up with the redneck, who slipped through the trees and brush like liquid, just quiet sounds of leaves crunching beneath his feet and the swish of branches and bushes being pushed out of the way as he ran through the forest. Moving in almost complete silence in comparison to the two bikes barreling and crashing their way through the gaps in the trees.

They broke out of the tree line right behind Daryl, skidding to a stop on the gravel road and only pausing to catch their breath for a second before Shane dissolved into a fit of laughter. His hilarity contagious making Rick let out a few breathless chuckles and Daryl’s shoulders shaking in quiet laughs as he bent over to rest his hands on his knees.

“So,” Shane got out between gasping laughs, “same time tomorrow?”

\--

Just as Rick and Shane had been inseparable the first two months of the summer, the last month it became Rick and Shane and Daryl that spent every day together. Shane warmed up to Daryl almost instantly, the two boys knowing each other since they were very small to begin with, and seeming to forgive the redneck for having stopped hanging out with him and the other kids that lived in White Oak. And Daryl slowly started to unravel himself from the cocoon of isolation he had built around himself, talking more, joking more, seeking them out more. Usually Rick and Shane would have to meet Daryl halfway somewhere; the corner store with the arcade games, the edge of Main Street that seemed to divide the town into the North and South areas, the rich and poor. Or right at that crossroads they had run into him before, on the way to the acres of farmland, right before the turn off to the back country roads. Daryl was very adamant that they never try to fetch him from his house, much to Shane’s disappointment, but it was the one thing that Daryl would never budge on. And he could get quite a temper when Shane tried to fight him on it, so Rick started to side with the redneck very quickly after their first argument on the subject.

The rest of the summer was filled with scouring every inch of the swamps and forest, Shane’s lessons on how to catch frogs, Daryl’s attempts to teach them to track, exploring the abandoned houses that lay dormant and melting into the forests deep in the woods, and endless hours at the Greene swimming hole.

It was only because they kept each other so busy that Rick realized, as he piled his stuff into the back of his Mom’s maroon minivan, that he never got Daryl to come to his Grandparents’ estate to look at the witch’s markings. In fact, they were so distracted that Rick didn’t even notice that the spirits or whatever was inside the plantation house had indeed left him alone. For the first week or two, he just became accustomed to having to relocate his belongings every morning, the items moving on their own becoming more teasing instead of menacing. Until, he wasn’t sure when, everything just stayed where it was supposed to. Daryl was right (Daryl was usually right, Rick was noticing), if he left the spirits alone, then they would leave him alone.

This would be the very first summer that Rick would be leaving disappointed that he couldn’t stay longer, the thought that Daryl and Shane would still be here the rest of the year, going to school and hanging out and Shane getting them into all sorts of trouble _without_ him made a jealous pit of unhappiness settle in his stomach. But he would return, as he always did, the next May with his Mother and then he would have his two friends all to himself again.

It would just be a long nine months in Kentucky.

\--

Nothing could have prepared him for how rough the year ended up being, once again living in the house that his father would never be returning to, his mom trying her hardest to work two jobs and keep food on their table without succumbing to tears and loneliness. It was a gloomy year for the both of them, Rick starting middle school and being introduced to a whole new curriculum and being over-whelmed with opportunities he didn’t want yet. His friends drifting and new friendships forming and all the craziness that comes from being a teenager in a big city. Rick realized that, even though his Grandparents’ estate was where his Dad grew up, it was more like home to both him _and_ his Mom than Kentucky ever would be. It was just as good for his Mom as it was for Rick, to get away from that life, and that’s why they kept going back. Leaving as soon as Rick was out of school in May, and only coming back right before classes started up in August. 

So when Rick returned that next summer, fourteen years old, two and a half inches taller, dark curls a little too long and starting to twist and coil up around the nape of his neck (his mother eyeing them with a gleam like shears in her gaze) he couldn’t help the grin and the deep sigh that escaped him. Breathing in the familiar air filled with the smell of cedar and Spanish moss and magnolias, fresh and nothing like the muggy city air from outside his townhouse in Kentucky. He gave his ceremonial hugs to his Grandparents and dumped his things in his room before rushing out of the house, ginning and stopping to fondly brush his fingers over the carving to the side of the back door before heading to the old toolshed. His bike was a little rusted from the humidity that year, but he’d clean it up later, for now all he wanted to do was find his friends and get himself lost in the woods.

Shane’s Ma was the first familiar face he ran into, doing some shopping in town as he peddled down Main Street. She stopped him and gave him a tight hug before pointing him in the direction Shane might be. There was some farmland on the far SouthEast side of town that had been given up to the town after the bank seized it, not able to sell because the soil was no good to grow on; some of the older kids had made a make-shift baseball diamond and usually commandeered the area during the summer. Now that they were getting older, it seemed Shane was welcome there and not just some snot-nosed kid trying to hang out with the middle schoolers. Rick had started to make his way that direction, but found himself stopping near the cross roads of the back country roads and the farming roads, looking through the trees in the general area where the Dixon house probably still stood blending in with the green swamp. He found himself doubting Daryl would be out playing baseball with a group of boys from school, and Rick really didn’t like the idea of not at least asking him to come along first. Even though he’d probably turn him down, if Rick remembered right Daryl wasn’t really fond of school, hated it in fact. Everyone treated him different from the other kids, although Daryl never said it in those words. Rick had just become very good last summer at understanding what Daryl meant in his short, clipped sentences, reading between the lines and picking up on his little nuances and mannerisms. Shane liked to say he “spoke Daryl” like the boy conversed some unknown language one had to learn, and Rick always secretly liked the sound of that.

Rick also didn’t like the thought that Shane would just ignore Daryl for favor of some other kids, he liked having both his friends at the same time, he had a lot of good memories from last summer when it was just the three of them. And if that made him selfish then so be it.

“Well, well, look’t who it is,” said a raspy voice to his left, breaking him from his train of thought. It took Rick a minute to see through the trees, but the image of Daryl Dixon soon stood out as he made his way towards him. He was taller too, shoulders even more broad and waist a little thinner, his growth spurt stretching him out, causing the muscles in his arms to stand out more. His hair was cropped short now, still a dusty blonde but a little lighter than the last time Rick had seen it, and his skin tanner from being outdoors.

“Daryl,” Rick grinned. “Ya sound different.”

“Almost didn’ reco’nize ya,” Daryl huffed. “Ya look like a damn poodle.”

“Least I still have hair,” Rick taunted, causing a small smile to pull at Daryl’s lips, making Rick grin wider. And then he caught sight of the strap pulled tight across Daryl’s chest, and what was settled against his back so large it looked half the length of his body.

“…Is that a crossbow!?” 


	7. Sinking Hands, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words can't express how horrible I feel that this took so long to get out. To everyone who is following this so faithfully I am so sorry, I promise I haven't given up on this story. It was a terrible combination of the crazy workload I had in February (fuck Valentine's day), poorly timed illness, and then I just got... stuck. I must have rewritten this chapter three times before I came close to happy with it, and I'm still splitting it in half because it's a ridiculous 16,000 words in legnth with no suitable ending and you all have waited long enough. So this will be the first half, the little bit at the beginning will happen in the second part. 
> 
> So what drove me crazy is my storyline skips to age sixteen, and I have all this STUFF I needed to add about fourteen and fifteen that I couldn't just glaze over. But I also didn't know HOW to write it out, so that's where I got stuck for like two weeks. :( So this chapter jumps around a lot, I tried very hard to keep ages prominent so it wouldn't get too confusing what happened when, but it's still a little jumbled and I'm sorry in advance for that.
> 
> One point I'd like to make is I played a little fast and loose with the original cannon storyline of Merle and Daryl's realtionship with their father. In the show Merle supposedly leaves Daryl to fend for himself against their abusive alcoholic father, does whatever for a few years and then serves times in the army, and eventually gets dishonerably discharged and sent home. During those years Daryl suffers severe abuse from his father. However, the culture I'm emmersing them in is very different to the one that Daryl grew up in prior to the show. He's got a large community around him, and prospering business, it's tight-knit and family based and there a lot more connections made; they aren't just secluded in the backwoods of Georgia. So in my mind, Merle wouldn't just up and leave because there's too much holding him to White Oak. I am still going the army route, though, and this won't erase the abuse in any way. It'll get descriptive much later, but Daryl won't brunt it in such a concentrated dose.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: teenage angst like woa, mentions of child abuse and severe bullying, discrimination, and PTSD-like symptoms related to child abuse. Not as much magic in this one, it'll be brought back with the storyline I have planned.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, un-beta'ed chapter again. Hope you enjoy it!

Rick spit blood onto the metal between his feet, licking the coppery substance that stuck to his lips like dried glue and coated his teeth as it continued to drip from his nose; he embraced the throbbing pain and used it to calm his rattled nerves and shaking hands, a single thought settled warm and heavy in the back of his mind. Just as warm and heavy and _real_ as the body pressed up against his side as he sat in the back of Merle Dixon’s truck bed. And when he looked to his side and saw Daryl was looking right back at him, dark bruising already swelling around his eye and his lip split wide open also dripping blood, the silence and the guilt and the immense _gratitude_ that resonated from the other boy’s unmoving and troubled gaze made him repeat that same thought.

It was _worth_ it.

 _Daryl_ was worth it. 

And Rick would be damned if anyone else ever dared to tell him otherwise. 

\--

_Two Weeks Earlier_

A roar rumbled in his chest almost before Rick could hear it, reverberating up the tires of his bike from the road and thrumming through him in that way only a deep bass could. Once Rick had made it to the top of the hill before turning onto the back country road, he stood on his bike pedals and surveyed the winding roads on either side of him, the thunder of an engine guttural and thudding deep in his chest but still bouncing off the trees and the vehicle was nowhere to be seen. He stood there balancing on his bike for a moment longer, noticing the sound was still getting louder, but giving up on his search and pushing his bike down the incline and aiming towards the turn off to the road that was paved with gravel. 

It hit Rick that the sound was a motorcycle, which must have been _Merle Dixon’s_ motorcycle, a moment too late, and the black and chrome figure flew past him not a second later, scattering gravel in its wake. Rick swerved to get out of the firing range, standing on his pedals again and letting his bike accelerate on its own as he stared intently at the bike and _who_ was riding it. Because last he checked, Merle didn’t have that much hair. 

Red break lights glowed, and he could see whoever was driving turn around to watch him through thick black sunglasses. Rick smiled, recognizing the stupid pair of $5 off-brand Ray Bands anywhere, Daryl had found them in the woods last year, and waved to his friend as he slowed his bike until he stopped right next to the loud grumbling motorcycle. 

“You got your license!?” Rick shouted in greeting, still grinning like a loon at his friend and admiring the bike, sunlight glinting off the shiny black and silver surfaces, chrome metal incasing the engine which visibly vibrated and shook the whole vehicle. 

Daryl nodded, a smile tugging stubbornly at his lips, though Rick couldn’t read him as well with his eyes being guarded by the sunglasses. “Turn’d sixteen las’ month.” Rick had turned sixteen in January, and he had his license too, but even he didn’t have his own transportation yet. 

“Happy Birthday, then,” Rick told the redneck, soaking in the view of his friend for the first time that summer, he and his mother had only arrived that morning. His hair was shaggy this year, Rick hadn’t seen it this long since they were very small, and it seemed darker somehow without the bleach of the sun. He was still all lean muscle, wrapped up in Merle’s old tattered clothes, boots splitting at the seams and bits of the forest still clinging to him like a magnet: dirt under his nails, smudged across his cheek, flakes of broken leaves caught in between the strands of his hair all tousled from the bike ride. 

Rick could tell he was taller than Daryl this year, his own body stretching out and losing some more of that stupid baby fat, not as much muscle as Daryl had though. Rick was all limbs this year, still trying to get use to the height and reach, with his dark curls now stubbornly out of his mother’s reach and threatening to become a small afro with the Georgia humidity. Either way the persistent curls and dark lashes made his blue eyes all the more intense, getting him the attention of some of the girls at his high school, and the soft cheeks he had as a child were starting to fade, leaving sharply cut cheekbones and widening his smile. 

All in all Rick thought he looked like a rodeo clown.

Daryl ducked his head at Rick’s birthday wishes, hiding the slight red tint to his cheeks with the glare of the sunglasses and his long bangs, seeming to not know to just say ‘thank you’ in response. Idly, Rick wondered if this was the first time Daryl had heard that phrase this year. Surely Merle would have said something, tossing a pack of cigarettes in congratulations at his brother’s head like he did last year. Rick had been there for that. Wait –

“Did Merle give ya his bike for yer birthday!?” Rick blanched, suddenly incredulous. There was no way.

The bark of laughter that escaped Daryl had the Dixon curling in on himself, and surprised Rick more than his own accusation, Daryl never laughed like that. 

“God no!” Daryl nearly shouted at him. Reaching out for the handlebars, Daryl nodded towards his house. “C’mon, let’s park th’s monst’r.” The bike sputtered loudly as Daryl moved it forward with his feet, waiting for Rick to nod back dumbly before taking off down the gravel road. 

The quiet that rushed back in, the sound of the wind in the trees and birds chirping and insects all around them, was a welcomed relief as the bike was shut off. Daryl swung his long legs around until he was standing next to the bike, leaning against the seat with his arms crossed until Rick stopped next to him. 

“So where’s Merle then, ya sharing the bike?” Rick asked.

“He’s ov’a seas,” Daryl answered, with his eyes averted again. “Got deploy’d las’ fall. Told me ta take care o’ it while he w’s gone.”

“Pretty sure that doesn’t mean riding it,” Rick playfully scolded, which earned him a shit-eating grin from Daryl that suited him way too much. “I didn’t know he was in the army.”

“Part o’ his pro’bation, kept him outta prison aft'r juvie.” 

“That why your hair is so long too?” Rick had witnessed Merle’s drunken shenanigans over the years, which included shaving his little brother’s head multiple times last summer. Before Daryl could shrink back in on himself, the sound of Merle’s words echoing between them _‘ya look like a damn girl, boy! Don’ worry, Merle’ll fix ya righ’ up!’_ he added quickly, “it looks good, longer. Makes ya look older.” Daryl’s huff through his nose, his own non-laughter, pulled a smile from Rick’s lips. 

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Handsome, even.”

“Stop.” 

“Beat them girls away witha stick don’cha?” That earned him a shove as Daryl tried to hide his own embarrassed smile, because Rick’s was splitting his face wide open. Daryl was too easy to tease with compliments, it was such a nice change from Rick’s friends back in Kentucky who teased each other with insults. 

The sun glinted off the chrome of the bike, catching Rick’s eye again, and he found himself tracing the over-heated metal with his fingers. It was smooth and searing hot to the touch, the smell of smoke and engine grease and burnt plastic emitting from it with the heat waves. Daryl shifted out of the way so Rick could admire it more thoroughly.

“Ya ev’r been on one?” Daryl asked out of the blue, watching his friend inspect every inch of the machine with a barely concealed smirk on his lips. It wasn’t often Daryl got to show anything off, the last time had been his crossbow his Uncle Jess had gifted to him on his fourteenth birthday, so Rick could tell he was trying to subtlety bask in it. He shook his head of dark curls, shifting his eyes between his friend and the bike longingly, causing an out right grin to spread across Daryl’s face. “Well, wha’cha waitin’ fo’? A writt’n invitation?” 

Staring down at the bike, Rick exhaled a heavy excited breath, hand brushing one of handles with shaking fingers. The rubber grip of the handle was warm in the July sun, and it reached far out on the low rider, Rick found out, as he swung his leg over the motorcycle and he had to let go for a moment so he didn’t lose his balance. Carefully straddling the bike, Rick took in all the gears and dials and various other instruments he knew nothing about, letting himself sink down onto the seat as he soaked in the new view of the machine. It reminded him of sitting inside the cockpit of a fighter jet, at a museum in Kentucky when he was small, excitement bubbling up uncontrollably inside of him and threatening to burst from the seams. Reaching for the handles, he griped the throttle and found strength and power in the stretch, his eyes darting up to his friend as the smile never left his face. Daryl was watching him with a smirk at his childish excitement when he first touched the bike, Rick was sure, but now the other boy watched him with a different look on his face. Rick couldn’t place it, but the all too familiar fluttering in his stomach started up again, and it made his own smile drop just a little bit.

“Daryl?”

Daryl’s eyes shifted the slightest bit, off some unknown spot to look into Rick’s, making the boy curious as to what Daryl was actually looking at. Did he have something on his shirt? Or his pants? “What is it?” Rick let go of the bike and leaned back a bit to inspect his clothes, so he didn’t notice Daryl leaning forward until he was far into his space. The boy towered over him on the bike, hand grasping the grip and holding it in neutral, leaning further into Rick until he was brushing against him to turn on the petlock, and his foot stepping up and onto the clutch and nodding at Rick to step on the kickstart, maneuvering the whole bike as he did so and making it tilt with Rick still on it, and the engine caught like wildfire. Rick could literally _feel_ the engine catch, the roar of the motor deafening in his ears and rumbling through the entire vehicle as the bike came alive, shuttering and sputtering and vibrating the metal frame. It could only be described as a purr, a low pulsating purr that resonated through the seat and up Rick’s legs and thighs and spine and into his whole body. He couldn’t even feel the smile on his face anymore, though he knew it was there because he couldn’t help but start laughing. 

God, the power in the bike just under his fingertips was intoxicating. No wonder the Dixon brothers coveted this bike so much. 

Eyes alight with the thrill of it, he looked back at Daryl again to grin at him, wanting to ask the question Daryl _had to know_ he was going to ask. But found Daryl was still watching him, that strange distant look on his face again, but when he knew he’d been caught he quickly tried to school his expression and averted his eyes, that cocky smirk quirking at his mouth nervously. 

The bike shuddered again in idle, bringing Rick’s attention back to the monstrosity he currently sat on. His whole body trembled with the engine, the guttural bass making it feel like Rick and the bike were slowly morphing into one thing. Blue eyes wide and expression still a little awed, but determined, Rick _knew_ … he wanted to ride it. He had never felt that _pull_ before, that pure _want_ coursing through him, but every bit of him needed to ride this bike, he knew it, and in an instant of inspecting Rick’s face Daryl knew it to.

“No.”

“But-“

“ _Hell_ no,” Daryl chided. “Yer gonna crash the bike and split yer skull op’n.”

“Ya don’t know that!”

“Yea, I do,” Daryl was practically laughing at him. “’ts exac’ly what happ’nd to me,” he explained, pointing to some scars on the side of his nose. “Had surg’ry cause o’ it. Yer not ridin’ this bike.”

“But you’re here to help me,” Rick protested. “Come on, we’ll take it slow.” But Daryl was not having any of it, shaking his head profusely and killing the engine, stepping away from Rick but still looking down at him. “There’s gotta be some way we can-“

“The only way yer ridin’ this bike is if ya ride bitch,” Daryl sneered, crossing his arms like had won the argument. Because in his mind, with his family, he did. That was that. No man rode bitch with another man. 

Until he saw the contemplating look on Rick’s face and it made the smirk drop right off.

_“No.”_

\--

The back country roads of Chatham County were not something that could be found on any map, there really wasn’t any rhyme or reason to them either, because they weren’t paved by the state of Georgia. Over the decades the families that had lived and died there had made them themselves, cutting their own way through the swamps and trees, making their own short bridges over the bogs that probably won’t hold a cat let alone a person, and not all were necessarily paved with anything either. Some hadn’t been driven down in years, according to Daryl, which is how the boys found themselves on an abandoned road in the middle of backwoods Georgia. Because Rick’s kicked puppy look wouldn’t really go away until his late thirties, and Daryl was starting to find that he _really_ couldn’t say no to the other boy.

Tree branches hung low over the road, criss-crossing and tangling together and dangerously cutting into the direct pathway of any oncoming cars, if one so chose to drive down the road that looked more like a wide hiking trail than a road. Daryl swore up and down no one drove down this way, and promised no one would interrupt them. The late afternoon sun beat down on them through the trees, and the road allowed a faint breeze to push against them and maneuver any debris on the road. Rick spent a lot of time surveying the area as Daryl tried to look busy tweaking bits of the bike; it felt like they were really out in the open, alone of the desolate road. 

Rick let Daryl climb on the bike first, sitting a little further forward than he had before, arms stretched out to hold onto the chrome handles. He didn’t say anything, or look back at Rick, but the space behind him on the seat was as good as any invitation Rick could ever receive from Daryl. The boy still wasn’t too happy with his predicament.

Swinging his leg around, Rick climbed on the bike behind Daryl, straddling the seat first before sitting down and becoming painfully aware of how little space there was on the motorcycle, but a part of him was too excited to care. His thighs were pressed firmly to the back of Daryl’s, chest brushing the other boy’s back, but he kept his hands curled into fists at his sides. He wasn’t sure what to do with them. After a moment of getting comfortable and them not going anywhere, Daryl sighed deeply, clearly exasperated at him. And Rick could _feel_ the inhale of breath, how the air expanded in his chest and how his back muscles moved with the intake, could feel the vibration of his words through his upper torso and shoulder blades as he told him, “You’re gonna hav’ta hold on ta me.”

Rick was no stranger to how opposed Daryl was to other people touching him, he had seen countless times the violent flinch when someone surprised him enough to get that close, the wary eye on everyone within a twelve foot radius that could possibly have such intent, how he would bristle and his shoulders would hunch and look of discomfort and anger and thinly veiled fear would take over his features. His whole demeanor wouldn’t have been more effective if he had literally stamped “Fuck off” on his forehead. So before Rick could even stop himself, he heard himself asking, “are you sure?” Even to him his voice sounded lightly fearful, like even though Daryl said he could he might still get a black eye for it.

That got the other boy’s attention, it seemed, and Daryl turned around to look at him, the sun catching the backs of his sun glasses with the angle so Rick could make out the stunningly pale blue eyes that had been hiding behind them all day. “’nless ya wanna fall off as soon as I hit the throttle, then yeah, I’m sure.” There’s a small tug at the other’s lips, giving away both his certainty in the matter and his nerves. And Rick fought a shy smile as well, trying hard to not look too long at Daryl Dixon. 

Tentively Rick ghosted his fingers around the other boy’s sides, like trying to not spook a horse when you walked behind it, reaching around Daryl until he passed his own hands and pressed them to the soft, warm fabric of his T-shirt. It felt like Daryl was holding his breath, back ram-rod straight and muscles rigid, and Rick could see the grip he had on the handles of the bike was so strong his knuckles were turning white. It was like trying to hug a damn tree trunk. Rick’s panicked mind wirled, did he do something wrong? _Fuck, I couldn’t’a just grabbed his shoulders?_ Why did he always have to mess up? “We don’t have to do this Daryl,” Rick tried to say, also trying to cover his own tracks and lean back away from the other boy, loosening his hold and about to let go, but Daryl cut him off with a sudden kick start to the engine. The bike roared to life beneath them, the whole thing tilting again from the force of the kick, and the metal frame vibrated violently beneath their legs. The engine caught an easy idle, purring and reverberating through them both, and Rick could feel the horsepower rumble with each turn of the throttle from Daryl. He had started laughing at some point, though he didn’t know when he started. And before he could say anything to Daryl, leaning closely into the other boy’s space further than he ever dared to speak right in his ear, Daryl changed gears and the bike shot forward. 

Instinctively, Rick clutched to Daryl like an octopus, at first burying his face into the other boy’s neck because he was _sure_ the bike did not have both wheels on the ground for a minute. Dirty blonde hair tickled his face, making him jerk back almost automatically, but not before he could breathe in the smell of sweat and smoke and warm earth and something unmistakably _Daryl_. He was ultimately glad he did, because that, that was too much, Rick couldn’t think like that, it was too confusing and he couldn’t do that to Daryl. Who was _laughing_. Rick could feel his chest moving beneath his hands as his friend laughed at him. He had started too fast on purpose, the bike had indeed reared up from the force of it, and caused Rick’s scrambling reaction. 

“You asshole!” he shouted, thumping his friend lightly on the side, having to fist his other hand into Daryl’s T-shirt in order to do so. 

“Ya deserv’d it, ya pansy,” Daryl laughed, letting back a little on the throttle and letting the engine grumble and purr as they weaved between the branches and random bits of forest scattered on the road. They were soon gliding down the back country roads, Rick learning very quickly to lean with Daryl through the curves and lean back when they met the steep hills. If the smile left his face for a minute he’d be surprised, his front teeth were dry and stuck to his lips because he hadn’t been able to drop that damn grin. It was hard not to shake the invincible feeling, even though he knew it was silly because he wasn’t even the one driving; he also hadn’t felt this close with Daryl in a long time. Probably not since he had given him his _girs-gris_ pouch, the small sealed leather bag that he always wore under his shirt whenever he was in Georgia. 

In fact, as they rode and Rick found he still hadn’t let go of his grip around Daryl’s waist, he was becoming more and more aware of the leather square pressed tightly between his chest and his T-shirt when Daryl would lean back against him as they flew down the back country hills. Almost like it was warm, sticking to his skin already slicked in sweat from the summer heat, and it had an energy that he could now _feel_ as he became use to the vibration of the motorcycle’s engine. 

He wondered if Daryl could feel it too.

\--

There were a lot of things Rick learned during his summers in Georgia; a few he was taught, a few were more _instances_ where he was informed, and not always so pleasantly. A few were things he taught himself through observation, and some were learned through first-hand experience. He had a lot of firsts through the years. But everything he was educated on were things that he would never had learned otherwise if he hadn’t met Daryl Dixon.

The summer when he was fifteen he had learned how to shoot a gun, thanks to Shane and Shane’s Uncle Scott, who thought it was something all boys should know how to do. He took the boys out back of the Walsh property and spent a whole afternoon in the hot sun shooting .38 specials at empty soda cans on a fence line. Rick actually got the hang of it faster than Shane, who had practiced with his uncle before and was a little sour about the outcome. 

Daryl wasn’t allowed over at the Walsh residence, and Rick could never describe how much it broke his heart to hear Shane’s Ma speak that way about his friend, so he missed the entire outing. But Daryl took no time throwing his head back and laughing at Shane when the story was told later that evening, teasing him about how a city-slicker like Rick could outshoot him. Though it was one of Daryl’s more light-hearted jests, that time, his comments weren’t always the most friendly. There was a strange animosity that had grown between the two over the years that made Rick really uncomfortable and frustrated with his friends. He was usually able to rally them after a few weeks so they could once again hang out without getting into fist-fights. 

He and Daryl did, however, share private smirks knowing that Rick’s aim had everything to do with Daryl teaching Rick how to shoot a crossbow the summer before when Shane spent three weeks at a baseball camp. It took long hours deep in the forest shooting at random animals or fruits and usually missing the targets completely before Rick got the accuracy he had now. And most of that time was spent chasing arrows, because Daryl would make him fetch them every time he missed. He made his own bolts, which Rick also learned how to whittle, so the redneck tried very hard to keep track of them.

The summer he was fourteen, Rick learned very early into his friendship with Daryl that not everyone approved of them always hanging around each other. He wasn’t as accustomed to discrimination, or stereotypes, or even what reputations could mean to a person. Even if the reputation wasn’t your own. It took his Mother sitting him down one evening before he could run out the door, and finally inquiring about the company he and Shane were keeping, for Rick to finally understand what had been going on for the past year when he was seen with Daryl around town. Rick had a sneaking suspicion that it was Shane’s Ma who had ultimately thrown a fit about it, because his Mom had the completely wrong idea about Daryl. She thought Rick was down at the Dixon property every day, where Merle and the twins would be laying around shooting rifles into the woods and drinking endless amounts of beer. That Daryl was just like his older brother, like his Pa. 

It was the first time that he stood up to his Mom, had told her she was wrong, and he was red in the face with shame and embarrassment and stuttering to try and get the arguments in his head into sentences that made sense. That Daryl was his friend, he was kind and smart and kinda shy but he tried really hard to make sure Shane and Rick stayed safe when they were in the woods. He looked out for them, even though both boys were older than the redneck. Daryl didn’t have a bad bone in his body, even though he could have quite a temper sometimes, which clashed with Shane sometimes but that just made Rick the peacekeeper and he was _good_ at it. It was somewhere through his rant that he caught his Mom smiling at him, and he had to stop himself before he stumbled over his words even more and said something that would get them all in trouble. 

It was also one of the first times he was proud of himself, and didn’t feel the need to brag about his accomplishment. Daryl would take the whole thing the wrong way, the boy already felt so low about himself that Rick would rather die than add to it, making him think he got Rick in trouble with his Mom or that his Mom thought they shouldn’t hang out. 

The whole ordeal, however, couldn’t be hidden because Shane had to make it known that his Ma didn’t want them being friends with Daryl. 

This would lead to his first ever fight with Shane. 

Because Daryl didn’t deserve to be treated that way, that he had done something wrong by just being born into the family he was. They all knew his family were bastards, his old man was a mean son of a bitch, and Merle had a sadistic streak a mile long. But Daryl was just… _Daryl_ , he was still trying to figure out who he was, but right now he was Rick’s friend. He was Shane’s friend too, on good days, but overall he was anything _but_ his last name. Even though it would take some time for Daryl to see that for himself.

He also didn’t like to think about how much he learned about social structure, about how grateful he should be for his Mom, and his house in Kentucky, and his grandparent’s estate. Daryl and he never really brought up how different their lives were, because during the summer when their time was just _theirs_ , it didn’t matter how awful your home life was or how much money your parents had, they just wanted to get lost in the woods. Ultimately, that is what made Shane come crawling back after Rick had chewed him out in front of God and everyone at the Greene farm pond. To be with people who didn’t judge, who liked him because he was _Shane_ , not just a Walsh or the preacher’s nephew or son of the couple who owned most of Main street. Shane got real good at apologies over those few years. 

Rick learned during that same summer that his grandparent’s estate was haunted. 

At first he didn’t really notice that strange things had started to happen around the estate. The summer before he had been thirteen and scared and still relying on Daryl and Shane to distract him from the strange happenings going on until they stopped, just as Daryl said they would. But then he came back, and everything started up again, gradually and so under the radar Rick wasn’t even aware of it at first. Items moving again, doors and windows opening and closing without the help of the wind, no those were just bits and pieces of the estate that were always _apart_ of it. Blended into the fabric of what made his grandparent’s house so secure, just as much as the carvings in the doorways, there was always something _there_ and no one was ever alone. It just took a while for Rick to figure it out. 

Late at night, usually after midnight if he was up that late, he could feel when something entered the room. The air would grow cold, colder than it had any right to be during the summer in Southern Georgia. The first time he noticed, the cold was so intense that when his breath misted in front of his face it startled him and made him look up from his book. There was something in the room with him, he could feel eyes on him, and though no shadows moved he could feel the anticipation that at any time they _could_. And he couldn’t help himself, Rick was _scared_. He wanted to run from the room, but the fear kept him rooted, so he closed his book as slowly as he could, and laid down with the covers over his head. He didn’t even turn off his light.

Daryl watched him with eyes that had a slight amusement in them as Rick retold the story the next day, adrenaline and sleep-deprivation making his hands tremble and his words a little scattered. But he kept his features carefully schooled, not letting slip a smile or smirk though his mouth twitched with the need every now and then, and Rick scowled at the action. He was glad Daryl wasn’t laughing at him, but he knew the other boy too well to not know that that was _exactly_ what he would be doing if he trusted himself enough. Inside his head, Daryl was probably in hysterics.

“It’s not funny!” 

“n’ver said it was,” Daryl said gruffly, voice carefully even as he slid a oiled up rag along the edges of his crossbow, slicking up at the places it was starting to catch and grind. “Ya see me laughin’?”

Rick scowled even further, he didn’t want to point out that Daryl’s eyes were dancing in the unvoiced laughter, because it wasn’t often that they looked like that. So instead he sighed tiredly, “ya gonna help me or not?” 

Daryl cut a look at Rick under his bangs, huffing and slinging the heavy weapon into Rick’s chest forcing the other boy to clutch it before picking himself up off the ground. “St’y here,” was the only instruction he got before the other boy melted into the trees. Rick blinked after him, fighting with his instinct to just jump up and follow the other boy anyway, but his fatigue beat him as another yawn forced its way out of his mouth.

Not ten minutes later, Rick was focused on the task of oiling up the crossbow when Daryl plopped back down into the bed of grass and leaves they had been sitting on, and in his hands was the old tin box he had been messing with that fateful night of the rattlesnake ritual the summer before. Rick’s actions ceased as he watched Daryl open the box and pull out a leather pouch cut into a square, open only on one side and full of random stuff.

“I remember that,” Rick mentioned before he could stop himself, wide blue eyes tired and unblinking and watching Daryl’s hands in fascination. “What is it?”

“’t’s a gris-gris,” Daryl answers, but not like it’s obvious. Slowly Daryl had been opening up about his religion, the life he was so emerged in, only when Shane wasn’t around and he had Rick to himself. He was very touchy about all the Voodou and witchcraft, even though Shane had endless questions and no tact in which to ask them. Rick was sure Daryl was more offended than anything when Shane would bring it up, so he had quickly schooled the technique of changing the subject. 

“Gris-gris?” Rick tried, though the foreign sounds got jumbled on his tongue, which made Daryl smile that small smile of his. 

“t’s really a type’a juju, ‘cause ‘m gonna use somea yer hair ‘n it,” Daryl explained, unsheathing his hunting knife and gesturing with it to show he was going to go ahead a take the offering now. When Rick nodded his understanding, Daryl gave his own short nod in return and shifted onto his knees. Fingers carefully carding through Rick’s dark curls, he found a suitable strand that wouldn’t fuck up his curly mess of hair too much, and snipped it with a clean swipe of the blade. Rick watched him the whole time, eyes wide and unashamedly in observation mode, taking in every move Daryl made. Rick knew it was making his friend nervous, but concluded Daryl would just have to deal with it, he got next to no sleep the night before. 

Daryl tucked the strand into the small pouch, and then started sewing it up and closing the opening all together. After stitching a leather cord to the top corners of the pouch, he then handed the whole thing over to Rick, who just stareed at it for a minute. “t’s fer you,” Daryl mumbled to him, extending his hand out further into Rick’s space. Rick took the small pouch carefully, and felt a breeze start up around them suddenly, shaking the trees and the leaves singing and eerie chorus. Daryl was eyeing their surroundings too, but he had a look of peace and approval on his face as opposed to the worried one that probably graced Rick’s own features. Last time that happened he put the occurrence down to bad timing, now he wasn’t so sure.

“I- thank you,” Rick told him, looking between the pouch in his hands and Daryl’s face who was doing everything in his power to NOT look at Rick again. “But… what is it? Gris-gris?”

“It’ll protect ya,” Daryl answered. “from an’thin’ evil. ‘n the woods, ‘r ‘n yer house, they won’ be able ta touch ya no more. Jus’ took a while ta make.”

Rick brought it up to his face to inspect it further, it smelled of leather and spices… and possibly dried bone. After a quick glance at his friend, he could tell that Daryl had been watching him from underneath his bangs between staring at the ground and the grass he’s been tearing out of it. So without another thought, he put the leather cord around his neck and slid the pouch under his shirt.

“So, it’s got a spell on it?”

“Yeah, ya could say tha’,” Daryl smirked, catching Rick’s eyes for a second before looking away again. “It’ll only work fo’ you, though, so don’ giv’ it ta anyone else. That’ll curse ‘em.”

Rick nodded his understanding, and found his hand had drifted up to feel the leather pouch inside his shirt. It was warm, like if Rick tried to look at it the whole thing might be glowing. But he resisted the urge to look down inside the collar of his shirt like a five-year old, and instead grinned warmly at his friend. His friend that was always looking out for him, and never knew how to take a compliment, “Thanks Daryl.” 

\--

So yes, Rick learned a lot of things: about life and what it meant to start growing up, about people and the judgments they passed, that everything always had a story behind it. How good it felt to have friends that would stand up for each other, that didn’t live to just make each other miserable. The familiarity of knowing every inch of a town and forest and county that was all his to explore, to have a place to come back to. To come home to. 

In the end, he really shouldn’t have been surprised that he would learn more this summer than any of the previous ones combined. Being sixteen doesn’t mean you know everything, even though you feel like you do. There was a lot Rick would learn this summer, and all of it started with the shocking fact that Shane… one of his best friends for the past few years, his first best friend _ever_ … really wasn’t a good person. 

“So where’s Shane?” Rick found himself asking almost two weeks after he arrived. He had gone by the Walsh property a few times, but the whole family was gone. Even Shane’s Uncle was gone from the church on Sundays, one of the assistant pastors had started taking over as a guest sermon, and he absolutely bored Rick to tears. 

“Fuck ‘f I know,” Daryl growled, a scowl on his face as he continued to tighten a few bolts on the bike. Sat on the gravel lot with tools spread out all around him and one of his legs under the bike so he could get as close to it as possible. His hands were covered in grease, as well as his shirt and a few smudges on his face, but the bike gleamed and shined like a new penny.

A frown formed on Rick’s face at the tension in Daryl’s shoulders at the mention of Shane, not liking the crease in between his eyes and surprised at the look of pure loathing that fluttered across his features. Leaning over the seat of the bike so he was more in Daryl’s line of sight, he waited until the other boy looked back at him.

“What?” he snapped.

“You tell me,” Rick said as calmly as he could. Daryl’s anger sometimes brushed against his, made it build hungrily in his chest, he had never snapped back at the other boy. Yet. But Daryl had witnessed his quiet rage a few times, once being when he stood up to Shane those couple summers ago. “What’s going on with you and Shane?”

“Ask’em yer damn self!” Daryl shouted, throwing his wrench to the ground and shooting to his feet, putting a good amount of distance between himself and Rick very quickly. 

“Daryl!” Rick exclaimed, also jumping to his feet but with the bike between them to block Rick from Daryl’s relentless pacing. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothin’,” Daryl sniffed, wiping at his nose anxiously.

“Bullshit, it’s nothin’.”

“Fuck you,” he sputtered, rage building and bursting at the seams. “’f ya don’ wanna be here jus’ go. Jus’ ge’t outta here and back ta yer fuckin’-”

“Daryl, come’on!”

“fancy-ass farmhouse, that’s fuckin’ curs’d by the way. Yer damn ganma made sur’a that.”

“Now I know you’re fucking lying, cause ya told me otherwise a long time ago,” Rick chided, scowling at his friend and trying to stamp down the inkling of fear that was imbedded in him at Daryl’s statement. Just as the redneck knew it would, damn him. “Stop changin’ the subject. What happened with you and Shane, you guys were fine last summer?”

“No we fuckin’ weren’t,” Daryl sneered, pausing to squint right at Rick. “Every time ya leave, he goes back ta ignorin’ me, or at least he _was_ ,” Daryl spit the last word like it was poison. Then actually spit on the ground like the thought brought a bad taste to his mouth. “It was fuckin’ better when he did. Shane’s an asshole, Rick. Always was, and now he’s jus’ a mean son’ova’bitch who likes makin’ my life hell when’ver I actually show up at school.”

Rick was having a hard time processing anything Daryl was saying, the angry words blurring and building inside his head. “Ya stopped going to school?” Daryl’s face twisted into something incredulous and angry.

“Of fuckin’ course, that’s all ya heard-“

“No, Daryl, I’m just trying to understand, just _calm down_ -“

“ _DON’ TELL ME TA CALM DOWN!_ ” Daryl screamed at him.

“Dar-“

“NO! Just- _FUCK!_ Just get outta here Rick!” Daryl practically shrieked at him, starting his pacing again, his movements rapid and violent. “I don’t wan’ yer help, yer goddamn _charity_ , and I sure as fuck don’ wan’ ya _here_.”

“Daryl! Ya don’t mean tha-“

“LIKE FUCK I DON’T! I’m not what ya think I am, Rick! Shane’s made that _real_ clear! I’m not _nice_ , I’m not a good goddamn _friend_ , I don’t got any friends ‘cept ya Rick! I’m nev’r gonna be an’ythin’ ‘cept a stupid, illiterate, fuckin’, backwoods redneck piece of shit-“

“Daryl!”

“-just like my Pa and Merle. I’m gonna be in jail ‘fore ya even graduate college! Or dead! Shane’s made damn sure tha’ everyone knows _daily_ that I’m hopeless an’ _useless_ an’ that I worship the devil or what’ver else he can come up with tha’ day an’ it’s made my life hell! So _no_ , I don’ go ta fuckin’ school! Fuck that place an’ fuck ever’one ‘n it, ever’one in this fuckin’ _town_ , an’ fuck _SHANE WALSH_ , an’ FUCK YOU-“

“DARYL!”

“-FER MAKIN’ ME THINK FOR _ONE SEC’ND_ THAT I WAS WORTH SOMETHIN’-“

“ _DARYL!_ ” Rick jumped right in his path of pacing and ranting, the other boy red in the face and yelling and throwing his hands around, almost smacking Rick across the face. But he got a hold of his wrist before it made contact, his other hand stopping Daryl at the shoulder before he ran into to him. That was absolutely the wrong thing to do, and Rick knew it as soon as it happened, because Daryl was lashing out on reflex before Rick could even blink. 

\--

It shouldn’t have been so quiet, Rick’s ears were ringing with a high pitched whine that was more disorienting than annoying. Rick couldn’t figure out why he was looking at the sky, he could feel gravel scratching at his skin through his hair and the back of his T-shirt, but all he could think is _how did I get on the ground?_ He could hear pacing somewhere near his head, and suddenly the image of Daryl bobbed in and out of his vision, the look of distress on his face making Rick follow him with his eyes, tilting his head when the boy would leave his line of sight. That only made a shot of pain race down his spine, and he groaned and winced at the intensity of it.

“Rick!” Daryl was kneeling on the ground, when had he come back? Did he even leave? The other boy was hovering over him, hands shaking and tilting his head this way and that though it never left the ground, talking to him but his voice was muffled. He looked near tears, so angry and distraught that Rick just knew something bad happened. 

“Wha’ ‘appen’d?” His mouth wasn’t forming words very well, and when he tried to reach for Daryl’s face to stop his fidgeting he missed by about two feet. The whole act was meant to comfort, to reassure, but it only seemed to make Daryl feel worse.

“’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he was repeating, trying to get Rick to sit up, which made Rick’s world tilt a little bit, but his senses were coming back to him. “I jus-“ Daryl was breathing deep and quick through his nose, showing just how upset he was, but Rick couldn’t tell where the anger was directed. Did he do something? “Ya fuckin’ grab’d me and I coul’nt..”

Shit, that was right, he grabbed his wrist to stop him from hitting him in the face.

How ironic.

Rick could now feel the flare of pain across his jaw and cheek, like the whole left side of his face was on fire, he must have gone down so hard he hit his head on the gravel lot. He fucking blacked out, he couldn’t believe it. 

“-an’ ya weren’t movin’ bu’ yer eyes were open but ya coul’nt hear me an’ I-“

“Daryl, it’s alright, ‘m alright,” Rick interrupted him, his words still a little slow and sluggish. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’ta grabbed ya-”

“Shut up, ya damn idiot,” Daryl growled out, though his voice cracked a bit, his drawl had gotten worse with his panicked words. Rick could now plainly see the anger was directed at himself, not at Rick. “Ya have a fuckin’ concussion.” Daryl held his head as gently as he could, moving it a bit and watching how long it took Rick’s eyes to come back around to look at his friend. His own words seemed to be more of a blow to him than anything, and Rick couldn’t take one more second of that crumbling look on Daryl’s face. He was tearing himself apart inside, Rick could see it in his eyes, despite the disorientation. 

He didn’t know he was touching Daryl’s face, or that Daryl flinched away from his touch violently, until his hand was resting against Daryl’s heated skin, fingertips brushing against the sweaty locks at the back of his neck. His thumb was right next to the small mark beside Daryl’s mouth, which was shut tight and jaw locked, eyes wide as he stared right back at Rick. 

“It’s okay,” Rick told him once he had the other boy’s undivided attention. Daryl’s wide unblinking eyes shown dangerously and told him how not okay that statement was, that he would hit Rick again if he wasn’t so upset with himself that he hit his friend in the first place. “Hey,” Rick shushed, trying to chase away the dark and panicked look on his face, “we both fucked up, it’s alrigh’. Hellva right hook though.” Daryl huffed through his nose, but his jaw un-tensed a bit at Rick’s lop-sided smile from his own joke. He pulled himself back a bit, out of Rick’s gentle grasp, looking away and not watching Rick’s hand fall back to the ground. That was the most acceptance Rick was going to get about the whole ordeal. 

“Looks like we’re stayin’ here awhile,” Rick commented, not saying a word about how Daryl sniffed every now and then, about how quiet he was, how close to crying Daryl had been when Rick came to. That maybe he saw a few tears anyway, and was too dizzy to notice the shine on Daryl’s cheeks for what they were. With a family like Daryl’s, boys didn’t fucking cry, they only got beat harder if they did. Rick knew, ultimately, that that was the reason Daryl was so upset; he never wanted to be like his Pa. Rick had been around long enough, had spent enough time with Daryl over the years, to know what wasn’t being said. What some of those bruises and scars and cuts were really from, when he tried to cover them with stories of hunting accidents and bumping into things or falling out of trees or whatever the fuck excuses he use to come up with back when they were thirteen. Daryl was the least clumsy person Rick knew, and that fact broke his heart into pieces. Because he didn’t know what to do to make anything better. At the end of the day, Daryl always went home. 

Daryl had hit him, fucking hit him, so hard he hit the ground and knocked himself out. Rick knew, understood, it was in defense; that that was what was expected of him, if he wanted to survive. As a Dixon. But to Daryl, it was the worst possible thing that could have happened between him and Rick. Because to him it showed just how alike he was with his family. His Pa wasn’t really his Pa, biologically or anything like that, Merle and Daryl had the same Mom but you could tell just by looking at them that that was all they had in common as far as genes went. Daryl would scoff quietly when Shane would bring it up, say something like “he’s raisin’ me, so he’s my Pa. Family don’t hav’ ta come from blood. Ya kin is where home is.” 

But home to Daryl wasn’t something that was safe, or even comforting. Home was an obligation, just like his family, it was something solid and unmoving and inescapable, a force that would always have his back as long as he returned the favor. It taught him how to survive, to toughen up, and to handle the storm of the world and everything it could throw at you. Practice for the ugliness of the real world. One day, Daryl would be one hell of a back up in a bar fight, and Merle would utilize that on many occasions. 

Rick could blame it on the concussion later, but the misery that radiated from his friend as they sat against the motorcycle and he shined up some bolts and parts of the bike with a vengeful anger was too much for Rick’s pounding head. As was having to keep his pounding head upright, so he titled and listed inch by inch until he was slouched against his friend, head resting against Daryl’s with the height difference, watching him work. He could feel Daryl breathe, how with each passing minute he would relax into Rick more and more with each exhale. He could feel the heat from his shoulder and arm, from his head that was still a little sweaty with all that hair. How he smelled of cigarette smoke and engine grease and sweat, but also a little like Spanish moss and warm earth. 

And Daryl let him.

He would also blame it on the concussion later. 

When, in fact, the only thing they could really blame on the concussion was that Rick didn’t remember what Daryl had been screaming about until two days later. And by then, Shane was back.


	8. Sinking Hands, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this is an emotional chapter, it was really hard to write. It took a while to find a way to finish the chapter, but I think I'm finally happy with the ending. Don't hate me for it! 
> 
> I don't have a lot of time to write about this, I may come back and do it later, I'm about to head back to work. But I'd like to thank everyone that stuck with this story and it's long updates, I appreciate all the comments and kudos and they really help me to keep writing. I need all the boosts I can get. 
> 
> EDIT: okay, so add ons here. This second part is over 10,000 words long, it is crazy emotional with lots of yelling and I think I almost ran out of adjetives at some points. Its linear this time, no jumping back and forth, and I'm super happy with the character dynamic, I hope you all are as well. Also I have my own headcannon for how intelligent Daryl is, which is VERY. Just because he doesn’t talk correctly doesn’t mean Daryl isn’t smart, or illiterate, he uses some words even I didn’t know before I started writing this, and he carries a vast knowledge of nature and everything in it. He’s incredibly smart, and I love writing him that way. 
> 
> Warnings: lots of verbal abuse, discrimination, fights, it's a bloody chapter. Oh, and language, they are teenage boys after all.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, un-beta'd, hope you enjoy

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Shane, stop-“

“I’m gonna rip his goddamn head off.” Thick calloused fingers griped at Rick’s chin and neck, holding him in place despite his protests so Shane could inspect the blue and black bruise that sprawled from his left cheekbone to his jaw line. It looked worse than it felt, really, as Rick kept reminding his Mother… and his Grandmother… and Daryl. _God_ , Daryl wouldn’t even look at him most days; and when he did his pale blue eyes would zero in on the discoloring on Rick’s face and the _hurt_ and _shame_ that filled his gaze was paralyzing. Daryl was trying to pull away and Rick was fighting him tooth and nail, and praying this stupid fucking bruise would just heal already so Daryl would stop looking at him like that. So Shane would stop looking at him like _this_ , incredulous and angry and violently protective. “When did this fuckin’ happen!?” he demanded.

Ripping himself from Shane’s hold on him, he stepped back out of the close space Shane had drawn him into and out right _glared_ at his friend. Or was it former friend now? 

To see the shocked look on Shane Walsh’s face would have been comical if Rick wasn’t so fucking angry with him.

“ _This_?” Rick seethed. “ _This_ happened when Daryl was in _hysterics_ after I forced him to tell me what the hell happened between you two!” He was trying so hard to keep his voice down, they were standing in the yards behind the church after all. It was just after Sunday service, and though they were both dressed in slacks and button down shirts and their church shoes, as soon as Shane saw Rick’s face he had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out back underneath some of the Magnolia trees that bordered the property. A small semblance of privacy, but not enough if Rick started screaming at the other boy. His whole form trembled with this uncontrollable _rage_ and just looking at Shane was making him _sick_. Sick because this was his _friend_ , who had done cruel and hateful things to their other friend, and he couldn’t make sense of how this happened. Except at the same time, he could. He always knew what Shane was capable of, what simmered just beneath the surface, it was just so hard to see him standing there looking so _shocked_ that Rick was angry with him. Wide dark eyes no longer swimming with a violent intent, mess of black hair done up just a little bit for Church at his Ma’s request, and standing just a few inches taller than Rick but much broader from all the sports he’d been playing during the school year. This was _Shane_ , goofy, all smiles, couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life _Shane_ , who always ate the last slice of pizza cause he had a hollow leg or somethin’, who could tell stories that would make a sailor blush, and stood strong and proud for everything he believed in. He knew better than to pick on anyone, let alone someone who can’t help who they are, Rick _knows_ this, so _why_. Why Daryl? 

“Why would you do this!? What’s wrong with you!” Rick hissed to him, keeping his trembling voice as low as he could, and from the guilt that was starting to show on Shane’s face Rick knew he had him. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Rick’s questioning rage, though it looked like every bit of him wanted to avert his gaze like Daryl always did. Rick had seen him do this with his Ma too, when he got in trouble, he just wasn’t able to look away from whatever was been lashed out to him, though his eyes watered and his mouth would quiver and the most unbearable _shame_ would settle across his features. He always wondered if Shane’s Ma told him he wasn’t allowed to look away when she was yelling at him. 

It was also the only time that Shane was ever silent, when he knew he was wrong, because he would just clench his jaw and take it. No one in the Walsh family wanted to hear excuses. 

Rick, however, didn’t want that, so after a beat of silence he felt his anger burst within his chest. “ _Nothing!?_ You have _nothing_ to say for yourself! Jesus fucking _Christ_ Shane! Daryl’s our friend! How could you do this to him!”

Shane opened his mouth to reply, and Rick decided then that _no_ , he didn’t want to hear excuses either. “I-“

“ _NO!_ There’s no _reason_ for this Shane! I just… I don’t understand! What’s _wrong_ with you!” 

“Nothin’s wrong with me!” Shane finally growled back, Rick’s rage and anger mixing with his own shame that was clear as day on his face, combined they made Shane’s dangerously uncontrollable anger build and build and Rick knew better than to fight with him now. Knew better than to antagonize him, knew this was the time to calm his friend down so they could actually talk it out and not shout at each other like he had seen Shane and Daryl do so often the past few years. But he just _couldn’t_ , not when Shane didn’t even look fucking _sorry_. “Why are ya defending him? He’s fucking _weird_ , Rick. He don’t fucking deserve yer pity just ‘cause you’re trying to relive us playing like kids. We ain’t kids anymore, he’s a fucking Dixon-”

“Who _ARE you_!?” Rick practically screamed, forgetting himself and that he was behind the church, that people were probably looking at them now. “The fuck is wrong with you!”

“ _NOTHING’S FUCKIN’ WRONG WITH ME!_ ” Shane bellowed, and if Rick’s shout didn’t get everyone’s attention then that surely did. “STOP SAYING THAT!” 

“Clearly there fucking IS because you’ve lost yer goddamn mind!” Rick shot back, hands shaking and clenched at his sides to stop from fucking _hitting_ Shane. “Since when did being a _Dixon_ or a _redneck_ mean ANYTHING to you! I know the things you’ve said to him, Shane, I can’t believe you both kept this from me.”

“He’s fuckin’ lying, Rick, whatever he said.”

“No, he ain’t, cause it sounds _just_ like you,” Rick seethed, making sure he was locking eyes with Shane and not letting him back down. “Tearin’ him down, telling him he ain’t worth anything and never will be, turning everyone else against him. He doesn’t go to _school_ anymore, Shane, _because of you_!”

“Don’t put that on me, he would’a dropped out like his fuckin’ white trash brother, who’s in _jail_ by the way-“

“He’s overseas in the _army_ you ignorant JACKASS!” Rick screamed, getting up in Shane’s space, making the other back into a tree with his hands twitching up like they were about to shove Rick away. “Not in _jail_! And Daryl is nothing like Merle and _you know that_. He _hates_ his family, he hates this town, and he hates _himself_ because he fucking _believes_ everything you’ve been telling him and I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE YOU SHANE WALSH!” Rick was so consumed with rage by the end of his rant that he couldn’t even feel the shame that should’ve come with the tears blurring his blue eyes and the cracks in his voice as he screamed at the other boy. “GODDAMNIT!” 

“RICK!” Shane shouted to get his attention, hands on his shoulders and shaking him none too gently. “Fucking stop, man! Why do you care so goddamn much?”

“Cause this ain’t you, Shane!” Rick screamed, wanting to jerk out of his friend’s grip but not wanting to put any more space between them until Shane started to understand. “It can’t be! This ain’t you! You’ve never… you don’t _torture_ people like this. And it’s _Daryl_ -”

Shane did let go of him at the mention of the redneck, scoffing and back to glaring at his friend and scolding him like a child. “There’s nothing special about Daryl Dixon, I don’t know why you always liked him so much. Why you defending him like this?”

“Because someone has to,” Rick glared right back. “He’s done nothang to you-“

“Bullshit.”

“Name _one thang_ Daryl ever did to you that made you treat him like this. Besides being fucking born, cause that seems to be a _crime_ here-“ 

“Oh come _on_ , man,” Shane shouted, throwing his arms in emphasis. “Crawl out of his ass, Rick, he don’t deserve it!”

“You are the last person on Earth who gets to say what someone deserves, Shane Walsh,” Rick all but laughed in incredulous fury. “Least of all Daryl-“

“WHY DO YOU LOVE ‘IM SO FUCKIN’ MUCH!?” Shane exploded, eyes alight with anger and hurt and hair messed up from how many times he had run his hands through it in frustration.

“WHY DO YOU FUCKIN’ HATE HIM!?” Rick screamed right back, getting up in Shane’s space again and staring him down. But Shane didn’t answer this time, just kept glaring at Rick and breathing heavy through his nose, not breaking eye contact and making Rick’s heartbeat increase with each beat of silence.

After a few minutes, Shane had slowed his breathing down, and he slowly shook his head at Rick. “You just don’t get it. I was wrong ta pick on Daryl at school, but everyone else was doin’ it anyway, cause everyone knows ‘cept _you_ , Rick. He’s a Dixon, this town is going ta shit ‘cause’a his family, and it’s only a matter of time before he’s helping carry it ta hell in a hand basket. He _was_ our friend, when we were _kids_ , but we ain’t kids anymore. Ya can’t help him, Rick, stop wasting yer time.”

Rick’s breathing had slowed too, but it was for a different reason. It would take years to perfect his rage, to cage it and hold it in, unleash it at precise times. But one thing that would never change would be that when Rick was really truly _angry_ , not just emotional, but pure _fury_ took hold of him… he got really still. So quiet one would think the fight was over, shoulders tense, chin tilted down, or to the side, his blue eyes would unfocus, and the animosity became a calming numbness that flowed through him and cleared his head. Helped him think. Helped him see, he wasn’t going to get through to Shane. Shane hated Daryl not only because of the discrimination imbedded in him from childhood, but also because of how much Rick liked him, how they had something that Rick tried so desperately to share with Shane as well. The three boys had very different relationships with each other, and Shane and Daryls was bred from jealousy. Shane had started everything by being a stubborn jackass who didn’t want to share his toys, and Rick couldn’t help but feel more used than valued, and the whole ordeal had twisted and warped into something that had caused so much _damage_. This wasn’t about who got to have Rick over the summer, or Shane being jealous, that had changed into Shane’s out right _want_ to make Daryl’s life fucking miserable, because he absolutely _believed_ that he deserved it. For being a Dixon, for living on the backroads, for the strange religion he practiced, and what was worse was Rick was starting to think that Daryl believed it too.

“Fuck you, Shane,” Rick finally said, quiet and firm, and refusing to look at him.

“What’d you just say ta me?” Shane almost whispered, breathless and incredulous. 

“You heard me,” Rick answered, finally snapping his bright blue eyes to Shane’s dark ones. “Fuck you.” And with that, he turned on his heel and started walking away.

“What? You’re really going to walk away from me!” Shane yelled, starting to follow him and getting up in his space. “You’re really taking his side in this! Yer gonna throw away _years_ of friendship for that asshole!?”

Rick spun around and stopped Shane dead in his tracks, inches from his face. “Yes, I am,” he seethed, then breathed deep and kept his accusing eyes on Shane’s. “And so are you. This ain’t all on me, it’s on you too. Goodbye Shane.”

Shane didn’t move this time when Rick turned around, looking like Rick had slapped him in the face. It took him a minute to recover, and his face became a twisted mess of anger and confusion and this heartbreaking _sadness_.

“I’m not fuckin’ chasin’ you!” Shane called, voice hoarse and pleading and stubborn all at once and it shouldn’t have _hur_ t so much to keep walking but Rick didn’t turn back once. Fuck Shane Walsh. “Rick!” With his nails digging harshly into his palms, Rick kept his steady pace not towards the church, where his grandparents and mom were no doubt waiting for him, but for the forest. The swamp that surrounded and wove through the town in patches thick and thin and was always _there_ , a sanctuary that always bordered the horizon. Always watching. “RICK!” Daryl was somewhere in the thickness of the trees, Rick was supposed to meet him after church let out to go hunting, but the redneck had agreed to the outing with a defeated look in his eyes. Because he knew Shane was back in town, and that Rick would either want to see him or bring him along, and if Rick did that Daryl would be sure to be miles away. But Rick no longer had any desire to even think of Shane’s _face_ because- damnit, how did this happen.

_“RICK!”_

Something broke inside of his chest, splintered and ricocheted through his bones like a gunshot, and then Rick was running. Running as hard and fast as he could in his sleek church shoes, dust coating the polished leather as he cut onto the white gravel through the parking lot and started beating his feet as hard as he could down the gravel road. The summer sun scorched his back through his button down shirt and the dress pants were stifling and his skin felt on fire but everything inside was _ice cold_ and it burned through his veins. Rick wasn’t sure if Shane was following him or not, or if he was still yelling for him, or if it had been someone else, because his heart was pounding too loud in his ears and his head was filled with white noise. 

The swampy forest that lined the roads was a green blur, his abused feet barley registered the change from clean white gravel to the rough mix of gravel and red dust and forest debris, or the splintered planks of wood that served as bridges and echoed hollowly with his footfalls when he crossed them. He was passing the Dixon property and the surrounding homes that housed the redneck’s distant relatives, past the second turn off to the Greene farm, past the roads they drove down on Daryl’s motorcycle and so far into the back country that Rick was good and lost when his feet finally gave out and he went crashing to the ground. 

Curling his fingers into the mix of grass and gravel and dust, Rick couldn’t hold back any longer. He screamed, his voice hoarse and rough and the sound was more broken and desperate than he had realized as it choked off into sobs. He was so _angry_ , his chest felt torn open and he couldn’t understand how this hurt more than his miserable first year in middle school, more than watching his mother wither and fade trying to make it by herself, more than finding out about his father getting shot, more than any awful thing that had happened to him. He had no label for it, it felt like betrayal but it _hurt_ more, something similar to mourning his father but ending up being so much _worse_. Because he felt like Shane was dead, like everything he had ever shared with him was gone, and it hurt so much more because he _wasn’t_ , he would just never be the same person Rick had learned to love. His best friend was _gone_ , and he couldn’t get him back, even though he was still _right there_. Rick couldn’t reach him, couldn’t break through that barrier of hate, and the failure made everything so much worse. 

He didn’t cry for very long, he was still too angry for that, but he stayed there looking at nothing and calming his racing heart. His only company being the breeze brushing through the leaves of the Live oaks towering over the road and the Spanish moss draped across their branches. There really weren’t any birds or insects to blend in with the tussle of leaves, the wind that fluttered through his hair and cooled down his sweat soaked curls and dress shirt. The tear tracks on his face. The anger fizzled out to numbness, to the dull ache in his chest and the heat on his shoulders and the pain in his bruised feet. For a while Rick was at a loss what to do, unbuttoning his shirt when the sun high in the sky became too much for his Sunday clothes.

It was halfway down his chest when his fingers brushed the _gris-gris_ ¬ that still hung around his neck, and he found himself looking down from watching the forest move to the leather pouch against his chest. The square was treated brown leather, with red and green and black bands stitched into it, lines and patterns that were intricate and tangled and beautiful. Rick had only seen Daryl stitching the sides, turning it inside out to make the enclosed pouch; he hadn’t gotten to watch him create the design, and wondered if it was something he had done on a whim or if it meant something. It looked like there was some form of rhyme or reason to the patterns, and the amount of skill it must have took and the time that was put into making sure the pattern was correct must have been tedious.

Carefully tracing his fingers over the stitching, Rick finally looked up when a bird called in the distance and broke his trace he had been in. He didn’t know how long he sat in the middle of the abandoned roads, but he needed to get up and move, do something. And right then, all he wanted to do was find Daryl… and get so lost in the woods he would forget all about Shane Walsh.

\--

It took Rick a few hours to get back to somewhere he recognized, spotting the Greene farm in the distance from the top of one of the hills. There was no way of knowing if the roads were going to lead him in that direction, so Rick’s best chance was to cut through the woods until he reached the brown wooden fences that marked off the acres of Greene farmland, and used those to bring him back to the Dixon property. That was his best chance of finding Daryl.

The swamp floor was uneven and made his swollen and blistered feet hurt even more as he stumbled through the brush and vines and roots so large they came up to his knees poking out of the soft warm earth. He ducked under low hanging branches, pushed leaves and Spanish moss out of his path, and slowly made his way in one direction with the sun beating heavy on his left shoulder. The close trees and heat and humidity soaked him in sweat, his clothes once again clinging to his skin uncomfortably with no breeze to cool down his wet clothes, and his curls stuck to his forehead and flushed cheeks. It was almost disorienting, the heat, so much so Rick knew he was making too much noise as he walked through the forest, and he didn’t see the squirrel on the trunk to his right until the familiar sound of an arrow hitting bark thudded right next to his head. He snapped to the sight of the squirrel with an arrow pinning it to the trunk, the recognizable green and yellow feathers at the tip indicating who it belonged to. 

“Could’a shot ya ‘n the dark,” Daryl muttered, melting out of the trees, also sweat soaked but with more appropriate clothes. Black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, cargo pants with holes ripped in them and some of the leg hems ripped too because they were too long, tied tight to his boots with red bandanas so the stringy fabric wouldn’t get caught on the brush. 

“Daryl,” Rick breathed in relief. The heat and the remnant swirling emotions from earlier left him light-headed and numb, drained, so he didn’t notice the tension in Daryl’s shoulders right away. How he was almost ignoring him. Rick sighed and leaned against a different tree to watch the redneck yank out his arrow and tie the squirrel to his belt, where three others were already hanging. Daryl looked at him for a moment, before huffing and expecting the bolt in his hand. “I got lost out here,” Daryl snorted his non-laughter, but this time there really wasn’t much humor in it. So Rick smiled for him, or tried to, still feeling a little exhausted emotionally and more than a little angry at Shane. “Again.” 

“Yer alone?” Daryl ended up asking, when he saw Rick wasn’t going to continue.

“Yep.”

“I though’ Shane was back,” Daryl grumbled out, still cleaning the squirrel guts off of one of his arrows, refusing to look at Rick.

“He is,” Rick huffed, debating telling Daryl that he had already run into the other boy at Church, the fight, how _angry_ he still was.

The hunter was silent for a moment, almost as if waiting for Rick to add on to his statement. Pale blue eyes shifted between his work and his friend who still stood there, leaning against the tree, sweat making his church clothes stick to his skin. “…th’n wha’ are ya doin’ here?”

“Lookin’ for you,” Rick answered honestly. And when Daryl still stared at him expectantly, he added, “We’re going hunting, right?”

The incredulous look that fluttered across Daryl’s face revealing his surprise made his chest burn but also made his heart swell until Rick thought it would burst. There had been so many people that had let Daryl down during his life, had left him behind, and Rick vowed that he’d never be on that list of people who abandoned the boy. Daryl’s face became unreadable, showing his hurt and his hope and his confusion and his wonder. No one had ever looked at Rick like Daryl was looking at him in that moment.

A small smile escaped from Daryl’s lips with his huff of laughter, because at that point he didn’t seem to know what else to do. It was better than him retreating back into his shell, pulling himself back in so far away that Rick couldn’t reach him. He’d rather have Daryl shaking his head at him, thinking he was off his fucking rocker, incredulous instead of afraid. It just showed how much trust Daryl had come to place in Rick, how much trust Rick had _earned_ , and he treasured that more than anything.

“Not ‘n yer church shoes we ain’t,” Daryl finally got out, trying so hard to keep his eyes on the ground but they kept straying back up to Rick, like he would disappear, and he just kept looking so _happy_ Rick didn’t even know what to say. Seeming to decide on something, Daryl nodded to himself, pushing off the tree and sliding the clean arrow back in his makeshift quiver. He hauled his crossbow over his shoulder, and jerked his head in the direction they were heading, “c’mon, I got an idea.”

\--

Daryl did a quick sweep through his house and around the lot, making sure they were good and alone, before dropping off his numerous weapons on the tattered porch. Rick watched him do this, moving silent and fluid around his home and then jumping off the porch steps and all but strutting over to the raised platform at the back of the property. 

“What are we doing?” Rick had to ask, jogging to catch up to the redneck and following him up the bleached steps. A shiver went through him at the sight of the altar, standing vigil and ethereal in the golden sunlight filtering through the trees, warm glow catching on glass and soft fur and smooth stone and bones, the light summer breeze pushing against the various objects and making the glass and bones chime together with the chorus of leaves shaking on their branches. 

“I’m gonna show ya wha’ my Sundays look like,” Daryl grinned over his shoulder, carefully removing a few things from the altar as he did so. 

The smile on Daryl’s face was small, real, it quirked at the edge of his mouth and made a relaxed and confidant happiness uplift the rest of features. This was Daryl’s element, something he knew inside and out, something he could share with Rick without feeling judged. It eased some of Rick’s apprehension that sparked up his spine whenever something magic related came into view or was brought up. Right now, though, a numbing adrenaline was shooting through his veins from his pounding heart to his fingertips. Daryl was going to _teach_ him about voodou, about the magic that he practiced every day. 

Gesturing to the dusty white wooden planks, Daryl sunk to the ground and crossed his legs carefully, and let Rick sit across from him. On the raised platform Daryl started laying out small smoky grey and brown crystals, all a few inches in length, in a circle with the pointed ends facing inward. Eight in total, evenly spaced, with a ninth in the center. Just looking at it and its geometric shape, and the continuing shapes within the crystals themselves Rick’s mind fizzled to a calm curiosity. The fight with Shane had left him emotionally drained, and the weight of everything had been resting so heavy on his mind that even Daryl’s presence and being allowed back on the Dixon property hadn’t been enough to snap him out of it. But now his sorrow and anger seemed to be melting away.

“What are those?”

“Smok’y quartz, ain’t native ta here bu’ the Lwa like it enough,” Daryl explained, making finishing touches to the stones, poking at them until they were perfectly lined up with each other. “Its suppos’ta ge’ rid of negative en’rgy.” Rick knows his eyebrows rose a bit at that, he wasn’t usually a skeptic about these sorts of things when Daryl told him about them, but this sounded a lot like reading a horoscope out of the newspaper. Daryl rolled his eyes at his friend, and then gave him a pointed look when he was finally happy with his work. “It’s a stone tha’ grounds ya, connects ya to the earth and uses all tha’ natural en’rgy ta turn yer negative feelin’s to positive ones. Ya felt it already, I know ya did.” 

“I think yer just distracting me so I stop thinking negative thoughts.” 

“Fine, take yer shoes off.”

“What?” 

“I saw ya limpin’ comin’ down the hill,” Daryl told him, once again only taking quick glances at the other boy beneath his bangs. “Ya musta ran yer feet bloody in thos’ damn church shoes. Gravel will tear ya right up if ya ain’t careful. Take yer shoes off.”

Rick complied, only wincing a bit as he slid the dusty leather shoes off his sore and swelling feet. He had beat the gravel road pretty hard when he ran earlier, now his feet practically throbbed once they had the room to breathe and blood could flow freely. He crossed his legs again and waited, looking at the redneck expectantly. Daryl reached for the piece of smoky quartz in the center of the circle, picked it up, and placed it on the curved edge of Rick’s foot, then calmly sat back. 

It was the oddest thing anyone had ever done to him.

They sat there staring at one another for a minute, Daryl’s face unreadable and blank, and Rick the absolute definition of a question mark. After a moment of silence, the breeze pushing through the trees and carrying the soft chimes of glass and bone, Daryl opened his mouth.

“So, how’s yer foot?” he had this confident list to his lips now, his head tilted just a bit expectantly but like he already knew the answer. Rick looked down at this feet, his left still throbbing in time with his heart beat, red from the swelling and heat. The other _looked_ the same, but-

“The pain’s gone.” There was no way. “Well, it’s kinda gone.” It still throbbed a bit, but it hurt a lot less than it did before. “That’s amazing,” Rick breathed, a little scared to take the stone off his foot, his hand hovering over it like it would shock him if he touched it. 

“Like I said, it takes en’rgy from the Earth ta help turn a negat’ve inta a posat’ve, includin’ the pain ‘n yer foot.” Daryl then carefully picked up the stone and placed it back in the center of the circle, and he didn’t have to worry about lining it up because the stone snapped back into place like a magnet, perfectly aligned once more. 

“That’s _awesome_ ,” Rick laughed, watching as Daryl grinned back at him from under his bangs. 

“Now fer the fun stuff.”

\--

“Do you believe in hell?”

“Nah, no’ really,” Daryl answered, slowly leaving trails of salt and sand over the splintered wood and around the smoky quartz crystals. He was making an intricate pattern called a _vévé_ , swirls and grids and stars all criss-crossing to make a beautiful but fragile picture in front of the altar. Daryl had explained that it was a representation of astral forces used in many voodou rituals, and then had spent a good hour painting a mental picture for Rick of the nighttime sky above Georgia. It was probably the most Rick had ever heard Daryl talk in one sitting, including the night they were cornered by the shadow people in his room. Rick was once again a little astounded by how _knowledgeable_ Daryl really was. And he didn’t mind one bit when Rick started asking questions, comparing it to the only religion that he had ever known.

“…then do you believe in heaven?” Once again the redneck shook his head. “Where do you think people go when they die?”

“There’s an afterlife, but it ain’t so cut and dry, it ain’t like bad people go here an’ good people go here. No one’s getting’ punish’d fer wha’ they do here, when they’re alive, no one’s gonna damn them. The only way they’s getting’ punish’d is if they get curs’d. The spirits of the dead tran’sit’ion to the other world, bu’ it’s a place of rest. They get venera’ed-“

“Venerated?”

“Like… respect’d, some families ev’n pray to ‘em. They ge’ta spend the rest of their afterlife bein’ ador’d, put on a pedas’tl and honour’d. An’ then relax ‘n peace the res’ of the time. Ain’t a bad deal if ya ask me.”

“No, I guess not,” Rick said with a smile. “And you still get to see the rest of your family when you die, too?” Daryl nods in agreement, but still doesn’t look up from his work. 

“Som’ people believe ‘n Heav’n,” Daryl said after making a very intricate swirl pattern and has to fill his hand with salt and sand again. “I gu’ss it’s really up ta how you was raised. Som’ of my cousins ev’n go ta church.”

“They believe in God?”

Daryl nodded again. “I don’ know how they believe ‘n both, bu’ it works fer them so more power to ‘em.”

“Ya never asked?”

This time Daryl shook his head, slowly and distractedly as he finished a particularly complicated curl. 

“But ain’t ya curious?”

“Course,” Daryl snorted. “But I don’ ask. No one should hav’ta explain wha’ they believe in if they don’ want to.” Rick was quiet after that, hearing echoes of Daryl screaming about the kids at school, _“that I worship the devil”_ , and Rick had to clench his jaw to hold back the anger that swelled inside him. 

The circle of smoky quartz crystals quivered, shook like something just bumped hard into the whole platform, but nothing else moved except for the small grey and brown gems. Daryl’s head snapped up to him, pale blue eyes bright and searching, mouth a thin line of worry. “What?”

Rick shook his head shortly, barely a twitch of movement, and looked down to the circle of quartz, eyeing them and trying to not think bad thoughts of the spirits or energies or whatever just outed him. He saw Daryl go back to his design of salt and sand after a minute of watching him closely, seeming to let it go for the minute. They’d been running on angry emotions and high tensions lately, Daryl would have no room to talk if something he was thinking threw off whatever calming ritual he was doing. Or at least that’s what Rick guessed he was doing. 

“So,” Rick cleared his throat, shoving the negative feelings deep down somewhere he could come back to later, and let the strange grounding feeling wash over him with the summer breeze, “what does this do?” 

“’m reblessin’ the alt’r,” Daryl said, setting the bag of salt and sand to the side, and picking up a jar of what looked to be goofer dust. “Naine’aine can’t always get ou’ here ta do it, so I’m startin’ ta take over fer her.” 

“That’s cool,” Rick said with a small smile. “Your Pa and Merle don’t know how to do it?”

“They do it wrong,” Daryl scowled, making some more lines with the goofer dust over the top of the _vévé_. “So I don’ let ‘em try, if I can keep ‘em away from the altar, I migh’ be able ta fix some of the probl’ms wit the Lwa. Get ‘em to forgive us, bring the game back, ev’n lift some of the curses ‘n town.”

Rick’s heart jumped to his throat. “Curses?” Fear struck like a match, catching like gasoline and burning through him until his whole body felt numb with it. “The town is cursed!?” He wasn’t sure if his voice cracked there, but Daryl seemed to notice what he had said and had froze in the middle of a line of goofer dust, black soot still grasped tightly in his hands. But his eyes were on Rick, wide and slightly comical in an “oh shit” face that he would have savored if Rick hadn’t been too busy on the brink of a panic attack. 

“Jus’-“ Daryl didn’t seem to know what to say, but it showed how much he had grown the past few years that he was at least _trying_. He licked his lips and only had one stuttering false start before almost whispering “Jus’… parts of it.” At Rick’s silence he tried to press on. “The North side, most’ly. Some o’ the big plan’ation houses, the swamp behin’ the church-“

“That’s where SHANE lives,” Rick almost seethed. 

“I kno’,” Daryl snapped, angry and defensive. “I was tryin’a fix it, b‘fore… every’thin’ happened. Bu’ it’s too powerful fer me, too old, I can’t get rid o’ it.”

“Does Shane know?”

“He wouldn’ believe me,” Daryl grumbled. “Ya know tha’. It’s not like I’m tryin’a pun’sh him. Ya don’ fuck with curses, tha’ shits for _life_.” Something in Rick’s chest loosened at that statement, he had almost blamed Daryl for the curse, even though he knew the other boy wasn’t that cruel, but a small part of him thought… just for a second…

“I know,” Rick breathed, letting the anger fizzle out again. “I know you wouldn’t do that, I just…I’m still pissed as hell at him, but…” 

Something dark settled across Daryl’s features, it flickered there in his eyes and Rick only caught a glimpse of it before Daryl was hiding behind his long bangs again, eyes back on the ground and finishing the design sprawled across the wooden planks with a set determination. 

“I’m just worried, he gets into the stupidest stuff, you know how he is.” Daryl nods shortly, but doesn’t look up, shoulders set and tense, arms of corded muscle tight with the same tension. “He could get himself killed.”

“I ain’t lett’n tha’ happ’n,” Daryl ground out, and Rick could tell now that he was refusing to look at him. But he couldn’t figure out what he had done to make Daryl angry, was it just bringing up Shane? 

“You really look out for everyone, don’t you?” Rick found himself saying, quietly and a little breathless, he honestly hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “No matter who they are.” Daryl finished his line, the design complete, and finally sat back and brushed the remaining goofer dust off his fingers. Silent, contemplating, but the tense anger was seeping out of his shoulders. 

Finally, after staring at the _vévé_ for a moment, the two boys quiet in the late summer afternoon, Rick heard Daryl start to speak again. “This is my town,” Daryl declared quietly. “An’ I’ma do ev’rythin’ I can ta keep it safe. No matter how brok’n it is.”

Pride swelled inside Rick, amazed and so astonished that the person sitting across from him was even _real_. How could anyone ever think anything bad of Daryl? Why could no one see him, now, how he really was?

“Don’ look at me lik’ that,” Daryl grumbled, sad pale blue eyes flicking up to Rick for so brief a second Rick hadn’t even seen it until he was dragging his gaze back down. “’t’s my Pa’s fault, an’ Merle’s, tha’ ev’rythin’s so bad. There should’n be any curses, they keep fuckin’ up the rituals, forcin’ the spirits ta help ‘em and trickin’ ‘em into blessin’ their business deals. Then no’ sacrificin’ any o’ their rewards, makin’ no offers ‘cept junk like roadkill and used up crap in our house claimin’ their precious. The Lwa ain’t stupid, they see _ev’rything_. I can’ let ev’ryone suff’r fer our own damn mistakes.”

“They’re not _your_ mistakes,” Rick tried to assure the other boy, but Daryl cut him off.

“I’m a damn Dixon, it’s _my_ family, and I was _there_ when they fuck’d up the rituals so yeah, they’re my mistakes too.” Daryl’s eyes were angry slits by this point, and the smoky quartz had shaken so much during their conversation that they moved out of alignment and ultimately became still. Just a scattering of precious stones with no pattern, and the grounding, calming feeling was gone. “We can starve, tha’s fine, teach my damn Pa a fuckin’ less’n. But no one else should! The only reas’n Doc Greene drank so damn much is cause his crops failed, aga’in and aga’in. They have ev’ry year since his wife got pregnant, she almos’ left him. The fuckin’ Chinese family lost ALL their pig’ets last spring!”

“Ya mean the Korean family, on the West side of town?”

“Korean, whatever. They migh’ haveta sell their damn farm. If anyone will fuckin’ buy it, the land is useless now. And then Main Street flooded o’vr Spring Break-“

“Yeah, I heard,” Rick added. “Washed out Mrs. McKreedy’s corner shop, too much water damage to fix anythang.”

“That’s all on _us_ ,” Daryl pressed, now locking eyes with Rick and looking like he can force Rick to understand just by glaring at him. “That’s on _me_!”

“Okay!” Rick answered, reaching out over the _vévé_ and grabbing Daryl’s hands to get his attention. “Okay, I get it,” he told him, quietly. “You feel responsible. But I’m still proud of you, for cleanin’ up yer Pa’s mess, for caring so damn much. For _trying_.” Daryl tried to look down, embarrassed and not sure what to do with that statement, but Rick ducked down so he kept eye contact with the redneck. “So I’m’a look at you however I want, got that?” Daryl was quiet for a moment, but nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good.” 

\--

The sky was a blood red, streaked across the sky in broad strokes like paint on a tapestry. The clouds huddled on the horizon hid the last rays of the sun from view, but the evening air was still warm and humid, clinging to their clothes and plastering the fabric to their skin as Rick and Daryl made their way across town towards the plantation roads. Still laughing and talking, kicking larger bits of gravel as they moved slowly down the abandoned roads. It was already way past supper time, Rick was already late, so there wasn’t much reason to hurry back. Either there’d be a plate waiting for him, or he’d have to fix himself one, it didn’t matter to him either way. He just wanted to spend as much time with Daryl as he could, it’d been an emotional day with lots of yelling and fighting with his friends, so Rick wanted to soak up the laughter and positive emotions as much as he could. 

After passing all the way through town, the stores having a few stray people closing up shop who dared to be open on a Sunday, the two boys slowed to a stop at the turnoff to the plantation houses, where Rick’s grandparents estate was. Or Daryl slowed to a stop, and Rick turned around after walking a few paces and noticed the redneck wasn’t following him anymore.

“Not gonna walk me to my front door?” Rick teased, all teeth and wide smiles, hair a humid curly mess that moved with the breeze on the open road. 

Daryl scoffed, stuffing his fists in his pockets and averting his eyes again, “Yer a big girl, Grimes, think ya got it from here.” 

“Alright,” Rick agreed with a laugh, letting his friend off the hook. “I’ll see ya tomorrow, Daryl,” he nodded at his friend, who nodded back and started walking the way they had just come.

The night was eerily quiet, the trees rustled and sung with the gushing of the summer wind, but no birds or insects could be heard as Rick walked the winding gravel path through the estate to the plantation house. Light was fading fast from the sky, dark purples and greys bruising the sunset as clouds continued to roll in from the West. Rick found he had stopped in the middle of the estate, getting lost in the falling night around him, wondering where the lightning bugs were in the shades of grass, why the cicadas weren’t chorusing with the leaves. And then he felt something, like an itch in the back of his mind, something persistent and out of reach so he couldn’t shake it off. 

Looking behind him, back up the plantation road and towards town where Daryl had just walked away, Rick could see the faint light of the streetlamps and shop signs glowing from beyond the sea of trees. Just a soft white glow on the horizon, and Rick couldn’t understand why he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He felt like there was something he’d forgotten, something urgent he needed to go back for, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember _what_. It felt so important. 

Turning fully around, Rick started walking back towards the plantation road, it was going to kill him if he didn’t find out what he had forgotten. Maybe he’d catch up to Daryl on the way back, and he’d remember whatever it was. 

The whole thing happened like a trance, and soon Rick found himself on the familiar roads walking back towards town. He had to stop himself for a minute, shake his head, clear it, figure out why he came back when Daryl went through all that trouble of walking him home. Surely there had to be a reason, and something clutched at his chest when he realized he didn’t know _why_ he was walking back through town, just that he felt he _had_ to, and part of him knew it had something to do with the magic in the forest. Whatever lurked there, good, evil, indifferent, it had a hold on him that even Daryl’s _gris-gris_ hadn’t stopped it, and that scared him. Daryl said the _gris-gris_ would protect him from anything evil, how could something that takes away his free will not be evil?

His feet were still moving even as he got lost in his thoughts, and his racing heart did nothing to help his already rattled nerves. 

Rick was almost back to Main Street when he heard the voices, laughter and South Georgian accents a muddle mixed with the scattering of gravel and the sound of skin on skin. Something hitting the ground, and a growl that sounded way too familiar. Rick was running toward the noise before he could stop himself, but this wasn’t the same thing as before. Nothing was making him run towards the noise, only his own fear of what was happening, who it was happening to, hoping he was wrong, following the laughter around the side of the corner store and crashing straight into Jeremy Buchannan. He hit his back full force, bouncing off of the other boy and sending Jeremy stumbling forward to keep himself upright. 

Daryl was just picking himself up off the ground, half crouched down like an animal, eyes livid and every muscle tense and ready to fight. He had some scrapes on his bare arms from the gravel, he fumbled and listed like he hit his head too hard but kept himself stubbornly upright anyway, and his lip was cut open and bleeding. He looked ready to rebound, ready to fight back, long fingers already curled tight into fists and eyes in angry slits looking from one boy to the other trying to pick his next target. Until those pale blue eyes landed on Rick, and they snapped wide in surprise, he didn’t even see the next punch. Straight to the gut, landed by Stephen Wilson, captain of the high school baseball team, that sent Daryl doubling over and stumbling back. 

“C’mon Dixon, what’s wrong? I know ya got more fight in ya.” Daryl lashed out, using his low stance as an advantage and charging the other boy, knocking him back. He got in a good punch or two before a few of the other boys who Rick couldn’t make out in the dark pried him off and hit him in the face and stomach once more, sending Daryl to the ground. 

“Daryl!” Rick shouted, voice barely heard over the fight, and he rushed forward only to have a hard hand stop him at the shoulder. 

“Ain’t you the Grimes kid?” Jeremy asked, glaring at him and all out ignoring the scuffle behind him. Rick in turn ignored the other teen and pushed past him, getting a fist full of Stephen’s shirt at the shoulder and yanking back on him. Putting a good 10 foot distance between him and Daryl as the other boy staggered back from the force of it.

“That’s enough,” Rick stated, loud and direct and pitched low, all authority and sounding years older than he was. Without prompting, or warning Daryl, Rick took a firm grasp of his bicep, holding it for a moment so Daryl would know – don’t panic, it’s Rick, they stopped – and then pulled the other boy to his feet, letting him take his time even as the group of boys started yelling at them.

“The fuck’re ya doin’, Grimes!?” 

“Mind yer own business kid!”

“Get the fuck outta the way!”

“You alright?” Rick asked, low and directed at Daryl so the others couldn’t really hear him. Daryl gave a stiff nod, but firm and he locked eyes with Rick for a minute. It was quick, fleeting, spoke volumes and Rick felt something tense inside him. Daryl was grateful he was there, that he came back, but now they were both going to pay for it. There was no way Rick could play this off and get out of there, like Daryl so desperately wanted him to.

“This ain’t yer fight.”

“You call this a fight?” Rick asked, lips tilting in a small smile that did _not_ reach his eyes. “Think ya need a little more trainin’ before ya take on five at once, Chuck Norris.”

“Ya best listen ta him, Grimes!” Jeremy Buchannan called from where he still stood leaning against the corner of the building. “Stickin’ yer nose where it don’ belong is likely ta get ya hurt, or worse.” He chided, wide grin all teeth and wicked words as the other boys circled them. “Get on home to ya momma before we hav’ta teach ya what happens ta trash like Dixons and nosey little _shits_ who don’ know how everythin’ works ‘round here.”

“Thinkin’ I know how it works just fine,” Rick shot back, “I just don’t care.” Daryl was glaring at him, but shifting his feet back and forth like a snake ready to strike, turning so he could keep an eye on the two boys coming around from the other side. They were almost back to back now, shoulders touching to keep track of each other, and Rick’s hand still holding tight to Daryl’s arm where he picked him up off the ground. “I’ll get on home, but I’m taking Daryl with me.”

“See what I meant about not knowin’ how things work?” Jeremy taunted. “We ain’t done with ‘im yet, and I don’ give a rat’s ass who yer family is, we’ll beat you down to get ta him if we have to.”

Rick’s hands were starting to shake, so he curled them into fists, and he was sure Daryl could feel how fast his heart was beating through his own grasp on his arm. Fuck, they were in so much trouble. Daryl’s muscles were tense again, shoulders hunched and ready to brace himself, ready to move when they striked. So Rick let go of his arm, and finished fully turning so he could plaster his back to Daryl’s. They had a full vantage point now, and Rick had been in a few tussles at school back home, but _this_ … he tried to bring back every bit and piece on self-defense his father had taught him when he was little. How to throw a punch, how to dodge one, how to take one, where to aim, go for the eyes, kick them in the balls. Once he had an opening in the circle he was grabbing Daryl and taking it, they could lose the group in the forest easily with night falling fast. 

And then they moved.

Two for each of them, all rushing forward at once. Daryl once again hunkered down and used his broad shoulders to charge the two, ducking below their punches and knocking one boy to the ground before whirling around and using the momentum to sock Stephen Wilson in the face. He took it in stride, and got Daryl good across his right side. Rick had used Daryl’s quick rush towards his own attackers to dodge one of the boys sending them stumbling to the ground. Alex Donahue punched him so hard in the teeth he knew he could taste blood, and Rick’s father hadn’t taught him how to take _that_ kind of punch, so he pushed through the shock as much as he could, shaking his head and feeling something warm drip down his chin, before starting to throw his own punches. 

He didn’t get very far, the boy he had sent to the ground soon appeared behind him and had locked his arms behind his back, Rick kicked out at Alex as best he could while struggling to squirm out of the other teen’s grip. That was when Daryl, who had been knocked down again, kicked out the other teen’s feet and sent them all crashing to the ground. Rick whirled and straddled the other boy, recognizing him only by last name, the youngest son of the O’Connel family, and got in two good punches to his face before he was being yanked off of O’Connel and kicked in the side. Ruthless kicking, and those boots were hard pointed leather that knocked the wind out of him when they hit his ribs, causing Rick to curl in on himself. 

“RICK!” His jerked up at the call, looking to the mouth of the alleyway where Jeremy had been leaning on the corner, because he _knew_ that voice. Curls full of dust and blood dripping from his nose and mouth from a particular kick that had sent his head snapping back, Rick caught sight of Shane in linebacker mode about to charge forward, and Jeremy Buchannan sending a full armed swing punch that had him staggering back.

“Back the fuck off, Walsh! Don’ need any more damn heroes tonight!” Shane’s face was slack with wide shocked eyes, but a slow wicked smirk was crawling up his face as red blood started to stain his teeth.

“Y’all ‘re dead now,” he sneered, but moving back with jumpy little steps like an excited little kid. “Ya got no idea who’s here, do ya.” His dark eyes were almost sparkling with excitement and violence, bouncing between Jeremy’s furious face, Daryl who was still scraping with Stephen on the ground, and Rick who had gotten ahold of Alex’s foot and sent him crashing into the dust as well. He and Rick locked eyes, and Rick didn’t know what to feel in that moment when Shane winked at him, and then darted back down the alleyway. 

“What’s he mean!?” O’Connel wheezed, trying to pick himself up. “Who’s here!?”

“Fuck if I know,” Jeremy growled. “Just finish these idiots so we can get outta here!”

The roar was deafening, bounced off the brick walls as the truck rounded the corner, and sent every boy on the ground scrambling to their feet and plastering themselves to the walls to avoid getting hit. It was dark by now, and the headlights on the rusted red truck were blinding, but all the noise and dust kicked up and bright white light that erased almost everything from sight couldn’t hide the tall figure that jumped out of the driver side door. And the voice that carried over the roar of the engine in idle. 

“Honey, I’m home!” Something broke inside Rick’s chest, like a damn that had flooded, and relief swept over him. “Baby brother! Wher’ ya at!?” He had never been so happy to hear Merle Dixon’s voice. A hand grabbed his wrist and _pulled_ , and before he had even looked up to see Rick knew it was Daryl, and the two of them were running towards the truck. 

“Damn, Darylina, what’d I say about messin’ wit’ the natives,” Merle laughed, grinning a mile wide at the sight of Rick and Daryl covered in dust and blood and bruises. “Made some friends, I see. Hey boys!” He shouted into the truck. “We got some friendly types lookin’ fer a good time! Why don’cha come on out an’ say hello?” The twins hopped out of the truck, identical wicked smirks on their faces, and Rick would’ve loved to see those teenagers get their asses handed to them, but Merle had put one heavy hand on each of their shoulders and was steering them towards the bed of the truck.

“This the boy ya been ditchin’ me for all las’ summer, baby bro?”

“This is Rick,” Daryl answered roughly, trying to pry himself from his older brother’s grasp. “He’s my friend.”

Merle huffed, seeming to size Rick up. “Got some rich blood, don’t he, ya know how to pick ‘em baby brother. Least he stuck ‘round fer the fight.”

“Walked in on the fight,” Rick spoke up, looking Merle in the eye to remind him he was there. “They had him cornered.”

“An’ what, ya jus’ walked in and told ‘em to stop,” Merle taunted, obviously believing something else must of gone down to get Rick involved in such an unfair fight. 

“Yeah,” Rick replied, still not breaking eye contact. 

Merle was quiet for a moment, now giving Rick his attention and full inspection. “Hmm, well ain’t ya a peach, just a good little Samaritan. Make yer momma proud.”

“Actually she’s probably gonna kill me,” Rick quipped. “But I’ll take the compliment.” 

“HA!” Merle barked a laugh, slapping Rick on the shoulder making him stumble a bit. “I like ‘im, com’on kids let’s get on home. BOYS!” He shouted to the twins, “WRAP IT UP! WE GOT SOM’ DRINKIN’ TA DO!” Merle pushed Rick and Daryl forward towards the truck bed, and Daryl hopped on in and unlatched the tailgate, giving Rick a hand climbing up as his ribs and side smarted from the exertion. 

They settled in the back, pressed side to side with their backs to the carriage, when the little back window slid open and one of the twins all but leaned out of it to get a good look at them. He had flecks of blood across his nose and cheek, but he was grinning and all out leering at Rick when his eyes landed on him. “Who’s yer friend, Daryl?”

Warm pressure lined Rick’s side from shoulder to hip as Daryl inched closer to him and leaned in as well, as if trying to push Rick into the corner of the truck bed and out of the older boy’s reach. “Leav’ ‘im alone, Colby,” Daryl growled out, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

“’m jus’ bein’ friendly Dar’,” Colby taunted, looking like he was trying to pout and failing. “I don’ ev’n get ta learn his name?”

“No.” 

“Colby ge’ yer ass back in the damn truck,” they all heard Merle yell over the engine roar as it started to move, “Ryan grab his perv’rted ass ‘fore he goes flyin’ out the back.” 

The other twin, Ryan, took hold of his brother’s shoulders and was hauling Colby away from the carriage window, but he caught sight of the boys in the back and then stuck his head through as well to ask “Who’s yer friend?” Daryl seemed to snap at that, growling and twisting around so he was on his knees and could shove Ryan’s head back into the truck carriage and finally slide the stupid window shut. Slumping back down in an exhausted heap, Daryl leaned his head against the truck carriage, banging his head a few times for good measure. The truck had pulled out of the back lot of the corner store and was bumping and jolting along the gravel roads in town, and neither boy knew where they were heading.

“You alrigh’?” Rick asked, though his words were a little muffled, his nose stuffed and congested with blood that was still steadily leaking like a faucet. Daryl nodded, a little tiredly and his eyes were only half open, Rick noticed the small trails of blood traveling down his face from his hairline and worried he had a concussion. “Don’ go to sleep, ya hit yer head pretty hard.” Daryl just nodded again, pressing himself to Rick’s side, but looked up and locked eyes with him, showing alert pale blue eyes and letting him know _yes, I’m okay._ Then he shifted his eyes, looking Rick up and down in a gesture that asked _you?_ Rick nodded too, his bottom lip a little swollen making it hard to give Daryl a small smile, but he tried and both boys fell into silence as the truck pulled away from the small town street lights and into the dark country roads that surrounded White Oak.

His mouth kept filling with the coppery taste of bloody, sticky and warm and seeping past his closed lips to line his teeth. They were both probably bleeding all over the rusted metal, so Rick didn’t feel too bad as he kept spitting the red liquid onto the metal truck bed beneath his feet. Daryl stayed pressed firmly to his side, and Rick knew he was looking at him the whole time. Daryl wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words, so Rick would return his gaze when he could, take in all the twisting emotions that swirled in his pale blue eyes, and interpreted them as best he could. _You’re so fucking stupid. Why didn’t you just run? You didn’t have to fight for me. You shouldn’t have been there, shouldn’t have had to do that. It’s my fault that you’re hurt, again._

_Thank you for sticking up for me._

Rick smiled at that thought, a real smile, and he knew he probably looked crazy covered in blood and bruises and smiling like a damn fool, but he hoped Daryl was able to read him as well as Rick believed he could read Daryl.

_You’re worth it._

Tearing his gaze away from the other boy, he shuffled closer if that was even possible, and leaned his head of dusty, messy curls against Daryl’s. Pressed his arm against his, shoulder to wrist, leaving his hands hanging, and resisted the urge to wrap an arm around his friend. This was the most he could ever do for Daryl, be there, be strong, be firm, and always come back.

Breaks shrieked at them as the truck came to a rough stop, sending both boys forward a little bit. The window slammed open again from the opposite side, and Merle was looking at them from the driver side seat. Or, more specifically he was looking at Rick.

“Get on home, boy,” he nodded towards the far stretch of the plantation roads, the big houses glowing like lanterns in the distance between the trees. Rick nodded to him, and then looked back to Daryl, who still looked so _guilt-ridden_ and so fucking _grateful_ , that Rick couldn’t stop himself. He gave Daryl’s knee a firm squeeze, snapping the redneck’s attention back up to his friend.

“See ya tomorrow, Daryl,” Rick said firmly, waiting for Daryl to nod and confirm, his hand never moving from Daryl’s knee. The boy barely gave him an incline of his head, but it was a nod nonetheless, and Daryl wouldn’t break his gaze away from Rick. Like he was memorizing him. It made his stomach uneasy, but there wasn’t much Rick could do with Merle and the twins watching them waiting for him to get out of the truck. So he patted Daryl on the knee where his hand had been, and stood up in the truck bed, climbing over the side and jumping to the gravel road below. 

Merle was pulling out of the turn off as soon as Rick touched the ground, and Rick could barely make out the image of Daryl leaning against the carriage of the truck, still watching Rick as they drove down the empty gravel roads and the night swallowed them up in the distance.

It was the last time Rick would see Daryl for a long while.


	9. Gone, I'm Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I'm alteranting between chapters with magic and chapters will a lot of feelings. Not a lot of magic in this one because, well Daryl's not here right now, but there will be a lot next chapter. A LOT a lot. 
> 
> I don't have much to say for this chapter, its a lot of feelings and dialouge and Rick figuring out what exactly Daryl means to him. Yes, you read that right, the wait is over. More of Shane being a good friend because I do secretley love Shane even though he has a _long_ and trying storyline for this story of kind of being a douchebag. And a few warnings of abuse towards the end, and offensive language but they're Dixon's so what can you expect, really? Oh, and there's a French translation at the end for something that is said by _someone_! Don't worry about it until you finish the chapter, just thought this was one y'all would like to know.
> 
> Finally getting into some of the big plot in these next few chapters. I'm so excited.
> 
> Mistakes are mine, run on sentences are mine, awkwardness is mine, I hope you enjoy. :)

The Dixon house was abandoned all summer. 

The forest had taken no time in taking the property back as its own: vines crawling up the outer walls and blanketing the roof with their broad leaves, birds nesting in the tattered remains of the front porch, snakes and insects burrowing deep beneath the foundation. Oddly, the house looked more alive now than it ever did when the Dixon’s occupied it. But the sight of the silent, vigil house, collecting dust and bits of debris from the forest, slowly melting into the swamp surrounding it, made Rick’s chest tighten to the point he could barely breathe. 

Rick hadn’t approached the house in a few weeks, he knew no one was there, and they hadn’t left anything inside to show where they were heading to. Even most of the weapons were gone from the walls, Daryl’s already sparsely filled room was even emptier with his few belongings packed up, and the kitchen had been ransacked for any bits of food they could’ve taken with them. Each fact scared Rick to death, panic clawing at his chest and this unbearable feeling of _dread_ weighing heavy on his thoughts, because it looked more and more like they were never coming back. But he had to hope that… if Daryl knew he was leaving White Oak and would never return he would have said something or come to say goodbye or – Rick had to believe, had to keep believing, that Daryl would come back home. He wouldn’t just… _leave_.

So Rick returned, each day, to the Dixon property. But he never went inside the house.

Plopping down into the warm mixture of grass and leaves, Rick tugged his boots and socks off his feet and placed them beside the weathered and sun-bleached stairs of the raised platform. He sat there for a minute, panting for breath and letting the summer breeze that flowed through the small valley cool down his sweat drenched clothes after hiking through the swamp for so long. Rick had made the trek from his grandparent’s estate to the Dixon property so many times over the past few weeks that he had stopped taking the roads through town and around the swamp and just started cutting through the forest instead. It took a lot less time, especially now that Rick knew where he was going. The swamp was suffocating and wet during the summer, the tree canopy helped block the sun’s harsh rays but it also blocked any wind that might have made its way to the ground. Making it so when you entered the swamp it was like being encased in bubble of pure humidity, and as soon as he broke the tree line into the Dixon lot the air seemed extremely cool and fresh and Rick gasped for air like he had just learned how to breathe again. 

After a few minutes, he picked himself up and climbed the stairs towards the altar. Sunlight glinted brightly off the colored glass and polished bone that hung from the top and chimed softly with the breeze. Each piece on the altar was clean, free of dust, and soaked up the warm sun with an ethereal aura that chilled Rick to his core but also awed him a bit. Sinking to the wooden floor in front of the altar, Rick sat with his legs crossed and feet bare and just _basked in_ the sight before him. It was almost meditative, taking in each piece before him and finding the symmetry and story behind their placement. Reading the tale of life and death, or trying to at least. Rick tried so hard to remember every _word_ of what Daryl had told him during the past few years, about the altar and the Lwa and how they worked, how to ask them for help. Because… if there was anything that could bring Daryl back, it was the spirits of the forest. With how much he had devoted his life to them, he had to hope that they would return the favor, or that they noticed he wasn’t adding to the altar. 

That someone else noticed Daryl was gone, and missed him too.

He had tried a few times to speak to the altar, out loud, but every time he said a few words they seemed to catch in his throat and he couldn’t force the rest out. Whether that was because of his nerves or if the Lwa actually physically _stopped_ him from speaking, Rick was never sure, he spent too much time alone out at the Dixon lot. Strange things seemed to happen if he was there too long. But he refused to give up. Rick just – didn’t know how to ask for help, what to do if they did give him their assistance, and every bit of his confusion just made him mourn the loss of Daryl at his side even more. 

It was painful, the void the other boy had left in his life. So Rick did what he could to keep close to him, the _gris-gris_ under his shirt no longer felt warm unless he was sitting in front of the altar purposefully _thinking_ about Daryl. That was how he started to question if he just prayed to it mentally like he did in church to God, and he’d been praying to God a _lot_ lately, then maybe the spirits would hear him. 

So there he sat, in the bright summer sun, cross-legged and barefoot with his button down shirt sticking to his back and a few buttons undone so he could actually _see_ the _gris-gris_ if needed, staring at the altar and not sure where to start. Rick closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing as his heart started to beat faster. And all he could think is _please bring him home safe, please let me know that he’s okay, please tell me that this isn’t all my –_

Emotions and possibly tears and anger all seemed to get stuck in his throat, lodging in place and making it hard to swallow or breath and he _knew_ he wouldn’t be able to talk if prompted. He felt so fucking _helpless_ , at the mercy of things he couldn’t goddamn see because he had no idea how to find Daryl and it was absolutely KILLING him not knowing. He felt so alone.

_I just need to know, I need some way of knowing. When I go home, if I can’t check up on if he’s back or not, I’m not sure I’ll make it on my own. So please, give me some sort of sign, something to help me not lose my fucking mind. Please – anything – I can’t… if this was my fault I –_

_I can’t do this alone._

“Rick.”

His eyes snapped open at the soft call behind him, because for just _one second_ it almost sounded like – 

“Rick,” Shane called again, this time daring to start up the steps on the platform. “What are ya-“ he trailed off and, to be honest, Rick had stopped listening the moment he realized it wasn’t Daryl. Too focused on getting his heart to stop beating so fast. 

It was a few minutes that had passed before Rick felt Shane sit down next to him, close, knees brushing and shoulders bumping as Shane kept his dark worried eyes on his friend. He was leaning a little forward, so he could see Rick’s face, but he stayed quiet as Rick got himself back under control. Rick could only imagine what he looked like, he hadn’t been sleeping well, blue eyes wide and unblinking and so lost because… he didn’t know what to do. He was so _worried_ about Daryl, and he had just vanished – 

Shane swallowed audibly, licking his lips to try and get words out. “Rick?” he tried again. “What are you doing here?” he asked softly, like to a little kid; not accusing, but quiet and _sad_ because he already knew the answer.

“I – “ Rick didn’t trust his voice for a second, and it was like unlatching a vice grip on his jaw trying to open his mouth to respond. His mind still whirled and _burned_ with questions and accusations and what-ifs and he was so _scared_ of what the real answer was, why the Dixons abandoned their home and left town. “Did I do this?” he finally got out, and he wasn’t sure if he was asking Shane or the altar. 

Shit, he felt so vulnerable. 

“Do what?” Shane asked, trying to keep Rick talking.

“ _This_ ,” Rick’s voice almost broke, but he swallowed the emotions down, and turned his wide blue eyes to Shane’s dark ones. “Why would they just leave?” Shane didn’t answer him, but instead shook his head and looked around the empty property. 

“I don’ know, brother,” he finally answered quietly. “They ain’t never left like this b’fore.”

“What if they never come back.”

Shane huffed softly, a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes or change the frown on his face. “Nah, man. We ain’t that lucky, they’ll be back,” Shane finally locked eyes with Rick again. “This is their home. They got too much tied ta these woods. And they don’ got no where else ta go.” Rick was so scared to hope, to believe that Shane was right, and a small piece of him reminded him he was supposed to be mad at Shane. How did he know his intentions were good? But the other boy was here, solid and real and supportive, helping as best he could in the only way he knew how, trying to steer Rick’s head on straight. Their friendship was more unbreakable than either fully realized, and Shane understood Rick in a way that was different from Daryl and anyone else in the world really. And he always would. The older boy bumped his shoulder with his softly, lips quirking a bit in a small smile. “He’ll be back.”

Rick nodded, finally tearing his gaze from his friend and the empty lot and the abandoned house and the towering altar and hung his head low. Grounding himself, breathing deep, letting relief seep into his shoulders and relax his muscles. Allow his heart to beat without pain racing through him, he never thought heartache was an actual _pain_ he would feel in his chest. But he nodded to himself again, letting Shane’s words repeat in his head. _He’ll be back._

“Thanks, Shane,” Rick said honestly, sitting up again and trying to smile at his friend.

“Don’t mention it,” Shane replied, smiling softly and slapping Rick good-naturedly on the back before pushing himself to his feet. “Ever,” he added with meaning, a knowing and exasperated look on his face, combined with raised eyebrows for comical effect, forcing a smile onto Rick’s own face. Though he wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. 

He took the extended hand and got to his feet, more aware of the soft and warm splintered wood under his bare feet after sitting for so long. The altar still almost glowed in the sun, the wind pushing against and around all the objects on it made it seem alive, like a thing living and breathing and growing in the forest instead of a structure built on a platform. Every time Rick looked at it he would get lost in the beautiful mess piled on and around it. 

“Were ya praying to it?” Shane asked quietly behind him, fear thinly veiled in his question. 

“I don’t know how,” Rick said truthfully, still not turning away from it. “It ain’t like at church, it doesn’t work that way. I tried, but I don’t know how to ask…” he trailed off, shaking his head a little. “Daryl believes in them, and it’s _real_ Shane, whatever it is. I just hope they’re looking after him, wherever he is. And that they bring him home. Safe.”

“Ya ever think about asking God for that?” Shane prodded, finally tearing Rick’s attention back to him. 

“I do,” Rick answered, “He just hasn’t been answering me.”

Shane didn’t seem to like that answer.

“Come on,” he led Rick towards the stairs. “Let’s get outta here, you’ve been here ev’ryday since they left. Ain’t healthy bein’ out here alone in the woods all the time.”

“Yeah,” Rick agreed, to all of it. With one last lingering gaze at the altar, the mantra in his head repeating like a broken record, _please, please keep him safe, wherever he is_ , he turned around and followed Shane off the platform. 

\--

It’s the day he’s supposed to leave for home that Rick finally goes back inside the Dixon house. 

There still hadn’t been so much as a whisper about the Dixon family, where they might have gone to, if any of them were okay. He had been asking _tirelessly_ to anyone that would listen, trying his own hand at some amateur detective skills, but no one in town or any of the Dixon’s neighbors had any clue where they had gone. They just up and left without a trace. But he wouldn’t make the same mistake. Rick wasn’t going to just _leave_ without leaving something to show that he hadn’t given up on Daryl. So he did the only thing he could, and it probably wasn’t the smartest thing he had ever done.

The metal latch on the screen door of the porch had rusted completely shut from the Georgia summer humidity, taking a few minutes of jostling and a couple hard knocks with a rock before giving way. The front door wasn’t even locked, and Rick quietly slipped inside the dark house. Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating the dust particles that filled the small space; it smelled of mold and stale cardboard, and everything inside had a thin layer of dust covering it turning the whole living room grey. Carefully Rick picked his way through the various debris on the floor, navigating his way through the living room and down the dark hallway to Daryl’s room. 

It was just as empty as the last time he had entered almost ten weeks ago. Drawers in the dresser pulled out and empty, mattress on the floor void of pillows and most of the blankets, and any candles or books were gone as well. It was sad to look at, and made his chest tighten, and before he could stop himself Rick was sitting on the mattress, falling back with a soft thump that sent dust flying into the air. It swirled above him in the faint sunlight filtering through the single window that still didn’t have any glass from when the Shadow People broke it all those years ago. Closing his eyes, Rick breathed in the faint smells of cigarette smoke and incense and burnt out matches, dirt and musk and something so barely there it had to be _Daryl_. And his chest _ached_. God he missed his friend. 

The sun was getting higher in the sky, and Rick’s Mom wanted to leave before noon, so he made himself sit up and pull the small pad of post-it notes out of his pants pocket. He had to make sure Daryl got it, and no one else. His Old Man still didn’t know they hung out, and while Merle did, if he found the note first Rick wasn’t sure he’d give it to Daryl. 

But now that he had it in his hand, pen and empty yellow square waiting for a message, Rick wasn’t sure what to write. Selfishly, Rick wanted Daryl to _know_ that he waited every day for him, wanted him to know he was still worth something to Rick. But… God what if Daryl’s family had _made_ him leave, without giving him a chance to say goodbye, what if he had been worrying about Rick just as much as Rick had been worrying about the redneck? Rick didn’t want to accuse his friend of anything, or make him feel worse than he probably already did. Eventually, Rick started with his phone number back home in Kentucky. And after a moment’s hesitation, wrote _**call me when you’re home safe. – Rick.**_

Before he could over think it, distantly thinking it was dumb because Daryl would have to _be_ home to read the note so of course he’d be home safe, he stood up and strode over to Daryl’s bedroom door. He closed it, and brushed some dust away from the polished wood before sticking the note on the inside of the door. That way, only Daryl would see it, and only after he shut himself in his room. He carefully pressed on the sticky part, making sure it would stay for however long it would be there, and then stepped out of Daryl’s room before he could talk himself out of it. Shutting the door and striding down the dark hallway and out the front door into the bright August sunlight. 

It was 8 hours home to Kentucky, and Rick knew he was going to feel every mile. 

\--

_5 months later_

Rick use to always have about ten things on his mind during the day. That was just how his brain worked, it was always in overdrive; it made it easier to remember things, to pick apart every small detail, and to problem solve when he could look at a situation from five different points of view. 

To keep himself distracted, so he wasn’t obsessing over his friend who was still lost somewhere in the world, now he had to keep about 20 things on his mind, because something always reminded him of Daryl Dixon. It didn’t matter that he was balancing high school, homework, his friends in Kentucky, his slowly shrinking dating pool (because _everyone_ could see he was distracted by something), and the part time job he got to help his mother with the bills. Sometimes, the empty Dixon house was all he could think about. Time and distance helped a little bit, the distractions of staying busy and having other things to worry about even more so, but _something_ always popped up, happened to remind him that his best friend was out there somewhere.

This time Rick was wondering if it was snowing wherever Daryl was, as he watched snow fall in a flurry outside the kitchen window.

“He still ain’t here, Rick,” Shane sighed through the phone speaker. “I’m sorry, man, but half the year is gone, if those damn Dixons ever do come back the _last_ place I’d see Daryl is at school.” 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Rick muttered sadly, distantly, wrapping the spiral cord around his fingers and leaning so far back in the kitchen chair that he was balancing on the back two legs. “Guess it’s too much ta ask for a Christmas Miracle, huh?”

“I’m still bettin’ they flew South fer the winter.”

“It’s Georgia, Shane, ya’ll don’t _have_ winter.”

“Bull _shit_ we don’t have winter, coach has us freezing our balls off every mornin’ durin’ practice!” Shane exclaimed. 

“Why don’cha come up an’ visit me in Kentucky,” Rick chided. “Give ya a white Christmas fer once in yer life, ever play football in the snow?”

“I’ll pass, fuck ya very much,” Shane grumbled, causing Rick to laugh at his friend’s expense. 

“Y’all headin’ up to yer Grandma Jean’s in Atlanta soon?”

“Hopefully,” Shane scoffed. “News said they might have an ice storm on the way, you know how my Ma get’s when the roads are bad, she can’t even watch my Dad drive.”

“An’ squeeze the life outta yer hand on the way, right?” Rick laughed.

“Hell no, I’m sittin’ in the WAY back, she can squeeze the dogs if she wants’ta.”

“Yeah, that’ll go over well,” Rick smirked, looking over to the door opening as his Mom came home from work. “Gotta go, brother, Mom just walked in.” His Mom smiled and shook her head even as Shane agreed on the other line and started saying his goodbyes. Dropping her keys and purse onto the table, she made eye contact with her son and mouthed silently at him _‘Daryl?’_ , which he shook his head at her with a small cheerless smile on his face. “Listen y’all be careful on the way up then, don’t get stuck in Atlanta.” He almost missed the sad, empathetic look that crossed his Mother’s face as she retreated from the room, running her hands through his unruly curls on her way out. 

“Ha! I’d never hear the end of it from coach if we got snowed in and had ta stay,” Shane exclaimed.

“Ya need snow to get snowed in, Shane,” Rick taunted.

“ _Iced in_ , whatever, same difference. Take care of yerself brother, and tell yer Mom I said Merry Christmas.”

“Will do, and same from me to yer Ma and Grandma Jean. Tell her I said you deserve that truck for Christmas.”

“I’m working on savin’ up for it if they don’t,” Shane reminded him. “You know how my Dad is, if I want it so bad I gotta work for it. Pay for it myself.”

“Best leave that spoon collection alone while yer up there then,” Rick smirked.

“Fuck you too. Later, Rick.”

“Bye, Shane.”

Rick hung up with a lingering smile on his face, one that was becoming easier to keep on his face. He was happy that he had made up with Shane during the summer and he had his best friend back, because he wasn’t sure he would’ve made it this long without him. Daryl missing was like a gaping gunshot wound to his chest, and the constant updates from his friend helped to ease the pain just a little. The Dixons still hadn’t returned, but at least now Rick _knew_ that instead of spending a whole year consumed in crippling fear and worry. 

Christmas was always a hard time for the Grimes family. Because of the hours that his Mom worked, she was never able to take the holidays off and Rick was left home by himself for most of winter break. Every year his Mom would offer to send him to his grandparents in Georgia, or to her parents in Vermont although they hardly spoke outside of the holidays, or even to the Walsh family homestead in Atlanta. And every year Rick would tell her no, his Mom would be home during the small hours of the morning on Christmas, and ever since his father had passed Rick refused to let his Mom suffer through the holidays alone. This year was a struggle to tell her he wanted to stay, because his Mom _knew_ about Daryl, had seen Rick call Shane each week like clockwork on Monday evenings, just to hear for himself if the redneck had finally returned home. 

She always watched him with this sad smile on her face, her eyes full of pity and understanding, and it took Rick the _longest_ time to figure out what that look meant. 

He had a long time to think about Daryl, because he spent a long time wondering the same thing he had been thinking ever since the first week the Dixon’s had disappeared. _What if they never come back? What if I never see Daryl ever again?_ And the thought absolutely _killed_ him. He would never see the redneck melting out of the trees with his crossbow across his back and leaves stuck in his hair, never watch him shine up his bike and check every part while covered in grease and oil, never see that small smile that Daryl was so scared to let crawl across his face, or the cheeky grin that escaped when he _just couldn’t help himself_. Never tease his friend and watch his face heat up, light blue eyes shyly hiding behind his long bangs, or cutting glances at Rick when Daryl thought he wasn’t looking. 

And then, it wasn’t just the fact that he was missing that Rick focused on. Soon, Daryl was all Rick could think about. He was memorizing every bit of his friend, trying to commit him to memory, because he couldn’t bear forgetting about Daryl Dixon. He didn’t want his last memory to be of his friend bloody, beaten, on the ground scrapping for his life; he wanted to remember sitting across from him on the wooden platform, all confidant smiles and relaxed shoulders, easily talking in his low backwoods drawl about the stars at night above Georgia. He wanted to remember what it felt like to sit _so close_ to him, pressed against his back as they flew down the abandoned roads that sprawled across the countryside. He wanted to remember how his dirty blonde hair got lighter when it was shorter and darker when it was longer, how he chewed on his nails when he was nervous, or how when it was just the two of them he held his head just a little higher. 

Rick would never forget how Daryl really only felt like himself when it was just them in the woods. 

But he spent so many long hours wondering where the redneck had ended up, worrying about why he had left in the first place, on a loop of ‘what if’s and ‘maybe’s and ‘hopefully’s that he didn’t even notice exactly _when_ Daryl had become the center of his whole world. Maybe it happened during the summer, or maybe Daryl had _always_ been there at the forefront of his thoughts. Wrapped around his heart and tightening like a vice when they weren’t around each other. He never knew how dependant he had become on the other’s presence and sheer _existence_ until he was so far out of reach Rick didn’t know if he’d ever find him again. 

He was unlucky enough to hear the phrase “You don’t know what you love until it’s gone” during English class from a book he was supposed to have read for their midterms. The words laid there on the test page staring up at him in stark black and white, and Rick was sure his heart had literally _stopped_ beating because – his first thought was of Daryl. 

Rick wasn’t naïve when it came to sex and attraction, far from it with a friend like Shane, who had gotten to some kind of base with every member of the White Oak High School Cheerleading squad. Including the coach, Mrs. Kelly, or so he claimed. Rick himself had had a very short list of girlfriends back in Kentucky so far, and one blurry experience the summer when he was fifteen and Shane had dragged him and Daryl to a bonfire out past the high school. Whiskey had been involved, and he never remembered who the girl had been, nor had he been approached by anyone about it since; but that had been an uncomfortable and awkward night that Rick really wanted to forget. Daryl had disappeared sometime during the night and wouldn’t look Rick in the eye for almost a week after, like he had been angry with him, though he insisted that nothing was wrong between them. Really, that should’ve been Rick’s first clue. Looking back, Rick couldn’t believe how blind he had been. 

It wasn’t until his girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend now, Allison Teller had complained that he never seemed to be there when they were trying to make out on her bed that he realized what was going on. Because before she had torn her lips away from his neck and glared at him he had gotten lost in his own head thinking about how her kisses were too soft and he wished she would press _harder_ , and he had started wondering about a different mouth and what that would have felt like. Smaller, lips that were used to being closed all the time, except when they parted to chew at a thumbnail nervously. How they would press hesitantly at first, closed tight and teeth clamped shut from nerves. But with a little encouragement would soften just a little, relax and part, leaving hot wet kisses in a trail along the length of his neck. Rough calloused hands grabbing at his waist and pulling him close, to a body that was warm and firm instead of soft and curvy. As soon as Allison had asked him where he had gone, what he was thinking about, Rick’s thoughts stuttered to a _horrifying_ stop, and it must have shown on his face as his eyes got really wide and panicked. She guessed that he was thinking about someone else, but she never in a million years would have guessed _who_. 

Over the years, Rick had been guilty of thinking more than friendly thoughts about his friend; but he was a teenage boy, and he and Daryl were _really_ close, it was bound to happen right? But that didn’t mean anything! Rick and Shane were close too, Rick’s mind had wandered once or twice, and sure Shane was super protective of Rick but they never crossed into _that_ territory, they never cut glances at each other like Rick and Daryl did. Or at least, Rick _thought_ that was what those glances meant. Rick knew more about Daryl than anyone else in the world, knew him better than his own family probably, but the one thing Rick could never get a read on was that _look_ that Daryl would send his way that was full of so much emotion it was impossible to decipher. It was more than gratitude, not quite hero worship, more respect than Rick could ever hope to deserve, along with hints of confusion and incredulousness and a touch of awe. And sometimes, something that looked a little like love. Or maybe a lot like love. Or it could be masquerading as love when it was really something else. Something more platonic. The whole thing scared Rick to death, because he was slowly coming to terms with the confused feelings he had swirling inside of him at just the thought of his friend. And he realized he had no idea how Daryl felt. But he knew his family, how he was raised, and how he was expected to act if Rick even mentioned something along those lines. They never really talked about love or sex or girls… or guys, so it was one field that was uncharted territory for Rick. Daryl was very shy when it came to those topics, so he tended to steer their chats in a different direction when it came up. Now he wished he hadn’t. Because he was scared, scared what this might mean for him, what it might mean for Daryl if he takes it wrong. He can’t lose his friend twice, he wouldn’t survive it.

Rick wasn’t sure if he was more scared of what Daryl might do if he ever found out, picturing his eyes narrowing in anger and lip curling in disgust before throwing a punch, drawing his hunting knife, or of that fact that he might never get the _chance_ to find out. 

He wasn’t sure when, but sometime that year, between finding out that the ache in his chest wasn’t just from worry, and the ever approaching beginning so summer, Rick decided that when he did see Daryl – and that was _when_ not _if_ , because he would be _damned_ if he never saw his friend again – he would keep his feelings to himself. The risk was too big, and he would get over it. Eventually. As long as he had his friend back.

As long as Daryl came home. 

\--

The brochures in his hands were made from thick glossy paper and were the full color ones that let you _know_ it was for something expensive, and Rick eyed them warily even as Shane talked his damn ear off on the phone. 

“We _have_ to go, man,” Shane exclaimed. “You didn’t go with me to baseball camp last year, and I’ll admit ya probably wouldn’t’ve made it-“

“Those sound like fightin’ words, Shane.”

“-but this academy course is supposed to be _awesome_! And if we wanted to do a real academy after we graduate we’d already have one foot in the door! That’s still what’cha want, right?”

“Yeah,” Rick sighed, feeling the tell tale signs of a headache coming on. The academy was a sore spot for conversation, he had had a lot of them over the past few months.

Rick’s Mom hadn’t taken the news that her son wanted to go into law enforcement very well, and Rick didn’t blame her after everything that happened with his Dad, but after she spent a few weeks freaking out and occasionally crying she was now nothing but supportive of his decisions. More because she loved him and not because she approved. She really wanted him to try to go to college, but Rick also really wanted to be close to home. He couldn’t leave her just yet, not all by herself. He had only a year left of high school after this summer, and he needed to start making some pretty hefty choices as to what he wanted to do with his life. And law enforcement was always something he had been interested in, poking his nose into his Dad’s files when he brought them home, begging for stories of what happened at work that day. _“Did you catch any bad guys today, Dad?”_ Now, he had other agendas. Sure, he loved helping people, he liked the organization and structure of the law, and he was a good leader he had learned. He could hone all of that with time. But he also would be in charge of missing persons, have access to data bases, _large_ data bases, and a lot of other different resources. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, that his missing person would be back before he reached a desk chair in a police station, but contingency plans were always mingling at the back of his mind. Two birds, one stone.

Summer was only five weeks away, and Shane was dying to drag him to one of the many camps he had attended over the past few years. Rick never had the money for any of them, or the interest really, but this was kind of their last summer as kids. Next summer they’d be high school graduates and expected to be doing things and going places. So Shane had decided he was doing _something_ this summer, though his parents shot down a cross-country road trip _real_ quick. But he had a lot of choices picked out, and all of them had to do with training for the police academy next summer. If they wanted to be partners, like they had talked about for years, it was probably a good idea that Rick go with him this time.

Plus, if he didn’t, then Rick would be in White Oak without Shane _or_ Daryl.

Rick hadn’t dreaded going to White Oak since he was 10 years old, but now the thought absolutely _gutted_ him. Because Daryl was still missing.

The image of the empty Dixon house burned like a brand behind his closed eyes, the ache in his chest splintering and pulling at his insides in painful twists and churns. No, Rick couldn’t go back, not yet. His summer days filled with emptiness and ghosts of his childhood echoing through the trees in the swamp would just be… too much. _God_ he missed Daryl. It was like White Oak wasn’t home anymore without him there, and Rick just _couldn’t_ go back to all of that. He wasn’t ready. 

“Fine, I’ll go,” Rick sighed, rubbing at his forehead to make his headache go away, lips quirking in a smile at the whoop of excitement Shane shouted down the phone. 

Maybe this is just what he needed.

\--

That summer was one of the hottest on record, triple digits every day, and a drought to boot, drying up the swampland into bitter dust and dead plants and an infinite amount of insects that will take your _blood_ to make up for the lack of water. And the mosquitoes didn’t come out ‘til evening. 

The Atlanta Prep-Police Academy was a six week course that was more like boot camp than a summer camp, for some kids it was a prerequisite to get them a spot for police academy training when they graduated high school. In fact everything seemed more military than anything; 6:00 am mornings and obstacle courses and mile long runs, then days filled with combat training and arrest scenarios and drills upon drills. But oddly, it was a lot of fun, and at night they got to kick back and get rowdy, as all teenage boys do. It was six weeks of helping Rick focus his ever running mind on real tactical problems and memorizing specific procedures to follow and learning that he could step up and take charge. Needless to say, he _thrived_ , and he and Shane moved like a well-oiled machine when they were partnered up.

Six weeks of not thinking about White Oak.

Six weeks of trying to forget the empty Dixon house.

But every time the discussion of girls came up, and that was _often_ , Rick would duck his head and let Shane take charge and regale the group with his endless stories of his endeavors back home. Let the extremely elaborate tales of Shelly or Haley or whoever drown out pale blue eyes and a light breathy laugh and a shy smile. 

It almost helped numb the gaping hole in his chest.

\--

“I’ve missed you so much!” Rick’s Mother was almost _crushing_ him with how tight she was holding on to him, and those six weeks of military work outs really helped sculpt Rick’s physique so that was _saying_ something. He had almost reached his maximum height, and his limbs were no longer clumsy and hard to control, but wrapped in corded muscle that made him appear slim but _strong_. Blue eyes intense and dark curls trimmed a little closer to his head because of the academy. But he was seventeen now, strong cheekbones and same wide smile and the barest of scruff starting to adorn his cheeks every few days. It had been an adventure with his Mom learning to shave, to say the least. 

“Ma-M-Mom I can’t _breathe_ ,” he stuttered out, trying to squirm out of her hold, gasping for breath when she finally let go.

“I’m sorry, it’s jus’ been so lonely ‘round here without you. Even though yer never home durin’ the day anyway,” she smiled at him, but it dropped like she had been electrocuted and she immediately looked guilty at hinting that he use to spend every day out with Daryl. He let a small smirk cross his face to ease her apprehension. 

“Yeah,” Rick agreed, rubbing his chest like his ribs might be bruised. “I can feel that. Grandma still know how to wrap ribs from the war? Think you cracked one.”

“You’re so mean to your Mother.”

“Just awful,” Rick grinned, this time slinging his arm around her shoulders since he had a good few inches on her. “I missed ya too Mom.” She smiled her wide smile and steered her son towards the towering plantation house.

“C’mon, go put yer stuff in yer room, I’m sure you have somewhere to be.” Rick’s smile dropped a bit at her words.

“Not tonight, Ma,” he told her. “Shane’s in Atlanta another week, so I think I’ll stay in.” He still wasn’t ready.

His Mother stopped in the doorway, turning around and staring at her son with that same strange, sad look on her face that had been there most of the past year. “… you sure? It’s only two in the afternoon.” Rick stepped over the threshold, fingers sliding against the all seeing eye carved into the doorframe, other hand holding his bag over his shoulder. “There’s plenty of time to-“

“Actually, ’m kinda tired,” Rick interrupted her. “Think I’ll go nap or somethin’.”

“Okay,” his Mother trailed off, watching him start up the grand staircase. “Let me know if ya need anything, honey.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His room was the same as it’s always been, warm light brown walls and rich earth tone furniture that had been there since before he was born. Books piled in various places, rocks and plants and other various bits of the forest collected over the past few summers littered the area making it his own, and his _gris-gris_ hanging on his door handle, which he immediately picked up and put around his neck without a second thought. Rick dropped his bag onto the embroidered rug on the ground, socks sliding a bit on the hardwood floor as he approached his desk and fished around in his pants pocket. He pulled out a pure white stone, granulated and jagged, it had been one of many that lay outside his cabin at the academy, blanketing the ground underneath the porch. Something personal, that was connected to him because he felt he learned so much during those six weeks and that he had personally _grown_ , it would make a good offer for the altar at the Dixon house. When he found the courage to go. Daryl always said the Lwa respected personal offerings, things that meant something to the patron, and would give their blessings if they accepted the offer. He couldn’t think of anything better.

He turned the stone over in his hand, thinking about putting it on the desk, but thought better and just stuffed it back into his pocket. Maybe he’d get up the courage later after he slept. So without any further interruption he took no time in flopping down onto top of his bed with a heavy sigh and a groan at how it good it felt, the soft quilt warm from the late summer sun and comforting because it smelled like home. He finally felt like he was home.

Dust danced lazily in the faint traces of sunlight in the warm room, the sun slowly starting to hide behind clouds for what felt like the first time that summer. The glass didn’t even glow gold like it normally did, turning a dim grey as the sun faded from the sky. That was when he saw it.

His post-it note.

It was dingy, with the edges turned brown from dust, and a piece of tape was holding it to the window on the outside of the glass, but the faint sunlight let him read his phone number on the other side. _Through_ the new message written in chicken-scratch handwriting on the side facing in.

_**Tried to call, no answer, sorry, I’m home.** _

His heart had to have stopped beating, he felt like there was a vice grip on his entire chest and he couldn’t fucking _breathe_ or even _move_ because-

Daryl’s home. 

It looked like he tried to scratch out “sorry” and “I’m home” once or twice, sorry was written largest, I’m home was written sideways like it was a last minute thought, and Rick couldn’t help but laugh that Daryl had a hard time figuring out what to say just as he did last summer. 

Fuck it had been a year. 

A whole _year_.

Before he knew it he was flying down the stairs, his heart now thundering in his chest and adrenaline racing through him like wildfire. He almost ran into his Mother as she rounded a corner, spinning her out of the way with his hands on her shoulders before continuing his trajectory to the mudroom in the back where his boots were.

“What are you _doing_ ,” his Mother near shrieked, clutching at her chest. “Ya almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry!” Rick shouted, tugging on his boots and hopping on one foot as the one got caught on his heel.

“I thought you were staying in!”

“Daryl’s home!” he shouted again as he escaped through the back door, not bothering to stay for a reply, because that was really all there was to say wasn’t it? His Mother knew, she _had to_ , she probably knew better than anyone how much it meant that Daryl was home. Alive. That he came back at all. 

He could be gone for a week and he doubted she would really blame him.

In no time at all he made it across the estate lawns in long loping strides and past the barrier of trees into the dense wet swamp. Once again by passing the bike, long forgotten and rusting in the toolshed, and made his way along the familiar path to the Dixon property. Really, it’s a surprise he hadn’t worn a trail into the ground with how often he had traveled there and back last summer. But he still knew the way, like the back of his hand, and it took _way_ too little time for Rick to break through the tree line at the back of the Dixon property and get an eyeful of the altar standing as beautiful and ethereal as ever on the raised platform. 

There were _cars_ in the driveway; Merle’s motorcycle, and his fucking rusted death trap of a truck, and the twins’ POS Toyota with the paint scraped off the side, and Old Man Dixon’s muscle car with the missing chrome pieces. Rick knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it. The brush and vines had been cleared away, little chips in the wood on the side of the house showing it had been hacked away with a machete more than likely. The front porch was trashed again, but some of the furniture and mess from inside the house was now piled in a heap in the gravel lot, like they were cleaning house and making space for something else. Rick didn’t even know he had started towards the house until he was close to the porch and heard a crash from inside followed by loud shouts and curses. More than one voice too, Old Man Dixon’s and Merle’s by the sound of it; he had missed sounds of people echoing around the lot, but the angry shouts that seeped from the walls had fear and apprehension kindle in his chest in a sudden spark, slowing his steps and making him listen closely. Like he learned in the academy.

“It was on fuckin’ purp’se an’ you know it!” screamed Merle, angry and loud and accusing. “It ain’t natural, wha’ happened, he’s fuckin’ _dead_ -“

“Don’cha th’nk I kno’ that?” Old Man Dixon snapped, words not as slurred as Rick was use to. He hadn’t hit the bottle hard yet, the day was still young. “I ain’t stupid, I know it wer’n’t no accident. But I’m hand’lin’ it. Me. Not you.”

“When?” Merle demanded.

“When I FUCKIN’ FEEL LIK’ IT ya ungrat’ful little SHIT!” Another bottle smashed and Rick jumped as the tin wall he was pressed against shook with a force of someone hitting it from the other side, and he could hear the Dixon’s fight loud and clear with only a few inches between them now. “ _I_ run th’s damn op’ration, NOT you, so yer gonna lis’en ta me and do wha’ I say or I’m gonna KICK YER PANSY ASS TEETH IN! YA HEAR ME!?” the sound of skin on skin and more bangs from the other side of the wall.

“BACK OFF– GET OFFA ME!”

“DO-“ a crash “YOU-“ the wall vibrates from the force of Merle’s back hitting it “FUCKIN’-“ skin on skin “HEAR-“ various objects clatter to the floor “ME!” 

“YES! SHIT,” Merle shouted back, wet and congested like his nose was bleeding. “Jesus fucking CHRIST, you sick fuck, ma ears work fine!”

“Then an’ser me the firs’ time, ya prick,” Old Man Dixon sneered. “An’ get up, ya pussy, clean this mess up. An’ stay aw’y from Moreau. Ya fuck up our bus’ness, I’ma fuck up the res’ o’ yer face, ya hear?”

Rick could hear Merle spit on the ground, probably blood. “Clean it yerself,” he said defiantly. “An’ yer an fuckin’ idiot if ya don’ see tha’ damn nigger is robbin’ us blind. Treat us like trash, makin’ fuckin’ snide comments all the time, kick his damn perf’ct teeth in next time I see ‘im-“

“Wha’ did I _just_ say.”

“- changing deals on us las’ minute, like that fuckin’ night Robbie got killed. It weren’t no _accident_.”

“Boy-“

“An’ he’s selling our stuff for a hellva lot more than he told us, keeping more o’ the money. High percentage fer him, same flat shit rate for us.”

“We’re hand’lin’ it,” Old Man Dixon seethed.

Merle just scoffed in response, seeming to have said his piece and stalked past his Pa. 

“Don’cha walk aw’y from me.”

“Walk wherever the fuck I want to!” Merle shouted, voice fainter as he went to the other side of the house, and Old Man Dixon’s heavy footsteps followed him, his slurred curses just a loud angry noise that wasn’t clear enough for Rick to make out words. He was also a little too focused on the fact that someone _died_ , and that he just got a firsthand experience of both of the older Dixon’s wrath. His stomach churned at the thought of Daryl, the bruises and scars he had seen, what the redneck had to go through to receive said injuries.

There was another loud crash and the front door burst open, Rick catching fleeting images of Ryan and Colby darting for Merle’s truck, and Merle stalking out towards the driver side and yanking the door open roughly. Old Man Dixon was still yelling from deep inside the house, mixing with Merles own complaints to the twins as he started the ancient truck with a deafening roar. 

The truck peeled out of the gravel lot in an angry screech of tires, taking Merle and the twins out of ear shot, and Rick peered around the edge of the house to make sure they were out of sight before he edged away from his hiding spot. Old Man Dixon had quieted down, after thudding around in what must have been the kitchen from the echoes, and Rick slowly side-stepped towards the front, rounding the small house and avoiding the kitchen window entirely. 

His new goal was to get Daryl as far away from the Dixon house as possible.

Daryl’s window had finally been fixed, new clean glass in the old splintering frame, but the blanket was still covering it on the inside. Excitement reignited uncontrollably in his veins, and Rick wasted no time in rapping his knuckles on the glass lightly. Daryl had ears like a hawk, if he was in there, he would hear him. Sure enough, the blanket moved a few inches, and Rick just _had_ to tilt his head and peer inside to look right into the pale blue eyes he hadn’t seen in almost a year. He was sure he looked a sight, all wide blue eyes bright and full of adrenaline from running through the swamp, probably had leaves in his hair or something because he hadn’t really cared about the plant life he had barreled through on the way over, and he hadn’t really thought _any_ of this through, but _God_ was it good to see Daryl. Daryl staring at him like he’s seen a ghost, mouth slightly open, hair kind of blonde from the sun but still a little long, tall and broad and tan and scrambling to yank the blanket off the frame and pry the window open with a good few strong tugs that flexed the muscles in his arms a little too much for Rick’s poor racing heart. He helped him get the frame up from the opposite side, grinning wide at his friend when the window was finally open enough they could look at each other without a glass pane in between. 

“C’mon,” Rick urged, nodding towards the woods. 

“What’re ya doin’ here!” Daryl hissed at him, the fight that just ended leaving faint echoes of fear in his eyes, but Rick was grinning too wide and had gotten ahold of Daryl’s wrists and was tugging on him, contemplating trying to bodily drag him out the window. 

“Come with me,” Rick breathed, looking past Daryl for a moment to the closed bedroom door where his Old Man was more than likely stumbling down the hallway to his own room. But also to see that Daryl’s room had returned to its normal state, clothes all over the floor, books open and tossed about carelessly, candles lit and a small altar set up by his dresser. Which was now full of clothes again. The grin could not be dropped from his face if a damn _bomb_ fell on them. And Daryl was staring at him, blue eyes a little wide and there was that _look_ again; the one that was shocked and awed and incredulous and so fucking _grateful_ it broke Rick’s heart. It was only then that he saw Daryl was sporting a black eye under his dark bangs, so he repeated himself. “Come with me.”

Daryl was climbing out of the window a split second later, using the window frame and Rick’s shoulder for leverage. Rick held his weight, grasping his arms and side stepping to give him somewhere to go before nodding at the redneck and tugging at his arm to lead him towards the back of the lot. Away from the house and his fucking father that Rick would like nothing better than to kill with his bare hands. But later, right now he had Daryl back, and they were going as far away as they could.

They almost ran down the hill, picking their way through the trees, and Rick as a little proud at how quiet his footsteps had become. He had a lot of practice last summer, though he still wasn’t on Daryl’s level. They were almost off the lot when Rick skidded to a stop, Daryl making it a few paces in front of him before turning around in confusion. 

“Hold on,” Rick whispered to him, though they are pretty much out of ear shot from the house, as he changed directions and made a beeline for the altar, darting up the stairs of the platform before they hit the treeline. 

“What’re you doin’?” Daryl called back to him, quiet but not whispering. Rick still doesn’t know how he does that. 

In quiet steps that echoed with each footfall, Rick made it to the altar and stopped before it, pausing to take in the sight of the still ethereal display laid out before him. Then he dug into his pants pocket like he had done at home not so long ago, and pulled out the same white jagged stone. There was a place for it among some other stones that didn’t quite match on the far left side of the altar, and Rick placed his stone their carefully, thinking as purposefully as he could, _Thank you for bringing him back to me._ It was a little chilling that once he placed the stone there, it was like the altar absorbed it, and it looked like the little white rock was supposed to have belonged there all along. 

Smiling, satisfied, Rick turned around and almost walked straight into Daryl. He had forgotten how silent his friend’s footsteps were. Daryl was watching him with a look of confusion and curiosity, knowing what he had just done but not _why_. A little embarrassed now, not sure if he wanted Daryl to know how obsessively he had attended this altar while he was gone, he found himself trying to explain. “I came here often, when you were gone, and I asked them to bring you home.” Something soft and broken fluttered across Daryl’s face at the words. “This was my offering, in thanks, because you’re here,” Rick smiled at him, though he couldn’t keep it up for long, not sure what to make of Daryl’s stunned expression. “Did- did I do it right?” _Please tell me I didn’t mess up again._

But Daryl slowly shook his head, “Nah, y-you did it right,” he answered quietly, and his blue eyes shone with such an intensity that Rick couldn’t catch his breath for a minute. It took a great deal of effort for Daryl to tear his eyes away from his friend, but he appraised the altar, and murmured softly, “Je vous remercie de prendre soin de lui.” Rick’s heart was beating so hard he could practically feel it shake against his ribcage, because he didn’t speak one speck of French, but he was pretty sure Daryl was saying something similar to what Rick had thought just moments before. Also the sound of Daryl speaking French so fluently was enough to make his heart speed up to dangerous levels. All he could do was nod at his friend, indicating they were done, before darting off the platform and into the dense, damp woods. 

Not long after, a crack of thunder shook the whole swamp, and the sky opened up for the first time that summer.

-

 _Je vous remercie de prendre soin de lui_ \- Thank you for taking care of him.


	10. Devil's Spoke (I Speak Because I Can)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God what a monster of a chapter, longest one to date. And I'm so _happy_ with it. Long awaited on my part because one of the first scenes I thought of when creating the idea of this story happens at the end. My heat is RACING. So happy.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone that leaves me comments and kudos, I can't tell you how much they help motivate me when I get stuck and need a boost. This story has broken some new records, I'm overwhelmed with the response I'm getting, thank you so much every single one of you. And to those who were apprehensive at first and decided to give it a try, I applaude you for stepping outside your comfort zone and I'm so gald you enjoyed what you read. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> I hope this chapter is everything you all ever wanted, all the Daryl you can handle that last chapter was lacking, and finally some _real_ Rickyl scenes. Rick focuses a lot on what he's feeling for Daryl, I tried to keep him as in character as I could, but they ARE teenage boys and - _horomones_ , pesky things. I really don't miss that. 
> 
> No warnings in here, just a metric ton of teenage angst and pining, offensive language as usual, and an ending that might result in the death of the author.
> 
> Please don't hate me for the end.
> 
> All mistakes and awkward sentences are my bad, I am my own beta, I hope you enjoy it :)

For the first time, Rick was leading _Daryl_ through the woods.

Rain seeped through the blanket of leaves that blocked the sky from view, dripping down the trees and soaking the ground below. Falling in sheets where the tree branches parted, waterfalls where they tangled together and the water could collect and stream down it, pillars of flowing water scattered throughout the forest like the pillars in an ancient temple. The swamp became a whole other world in the thunderstorm, dark from the clouded sky, air thick with the electric storm brewing overhead, and traces of light highlighting the outlines of the tree trunks and branches and leaves where they glistened from the rain. A wet world that was both hot and cold from the humid summer air and the chill on their skin as they darted through the trees. The ground becoming slick and muddy with each step they took further into the woods. 

Ducking under and around the brush that landed in his path, Rick couldn’t help the small grin that escaped as he panted for breath, not slowing in the slightest since they left the Dixon lot. But he didn’t need to worry about losing the redneck in the trees, Daryl was following so closely behind him Rick could sometimes feel his breath on the back of his neck, his friend literally following in his footsteps. In fact, as he slowed for a moment, his lungs burning from the run, he felt Daryl’s chest bump into his back, the other not expecting the change in pace. Rick slowed to a stop and collapsed against the nearest thing taller than him, ending up leaning against a tree feeling like his limbs were made of jelly, wiping his wet curls from his eyes he regarded his friend.

“Just give me a’minute,” he panted, gasping between every few syllables. “Ran all-- the way to yer house, can’t run all-- the way back.” Daryl nodded his understanding, water dripping down his long locks and broad chest heaving quietly with quick breaths as he once again surveyed their surroundings. 

“Where we goin’?” Daryl asked gruffly, his voice deeper and almost raspier than the last time Rick had heard him.

“Good lord, you hittin’ those cigarettes a little-- hard, ain’t ya?” Rick huffed at him humorously, now leaning on his knees and trying to force enough air into his lungs. 

“Wha’ was that? Can’ seem ta hear ya ov’r ya gaspin’ fer breath there. Havin’ trouble?” Daryl sneered playfully, pushing his own wet bangs out of his eyes so Rick could see the ‘are ya shittin’ me?’ look the situation desperately called for. 

Rick couldn’t help but laugh at that, if he could laugh, that required breathing. “Dick.” 

“Pussy,” Daryl shot back, but stepped up into Rick’s space and pulled on his arm to force him to stand upright, pushing at his shoulder until his back hit the tree. “Stand up, yer crushin’ yer lungs bent ov’r like that.” Rick let his head hit the trunk of the tree, trying to ignore the torrent of water flowing down the bark and right down his back, and took huge gulp fulls of air. 

“Thought,” he panted. “--camp would help with this.” His lungs slowly stopped aching as air flowed in and out of them. “Ran three miles every-- mornin’ for six weeks.”

“Not thro’gh the swamp ya didn’t,” Daryl chided. “Like runnin’ a four mile obst’cle course.”

“How do you know _everythang_?!”

“On’ly the us’ful stuff,” Daryl muttered, his bangs still dripping water making them fall back into his face, spots of rain hitting the two of them in scattered doses through the leaves. “Nothin’ like alge’brah, or chem’stry, or how ta do taxes, or _where we’re goin’_.” Rick grinned wide at his friend’s attempt at teasing, and _God_ did it feel good to hear those snide comments that were all playful with no heat, to hear Daryl’s non-laugh as he snorted through his nose, to have Daryl _here_.

“God I missed you,” Rick breathed, the words slipping from his lips before he could stop himself. His eyes were closed against the falling rain with his head still tilted back against the tree, and he almost didn’t have the courage to open them after he had blurted that out. 

But Daryl didn’t even hesitate.

“Miss’d ya too.” 

He had said it quiet, low, and sounding _much_ too close. Suddenly Rick couldn’t catch his breath again.

But when Rick opened his eyes and saw his friend still had that good two foot distance between them, he let out a long sigh and let his head fall back against the rough tree bark again in reprimand. Pull yourself together Grimes. For shit’s sake.

“Com’on,” Rick forced himself to say, pushing off of the tree with great difficulty and making himself walk into Daryl’s space and right back out again as he started to lead the way once more. He could practically _feel_ Daryl bristle in annoyance from his continuously unanswered question, and the silence that radiated from behind him said more than words ever could. He shot an apologetic smile towards the stoic redneck.

“My house,” Rick answered, having now finally caught his breath, maybe his brain could start functioning properly now that it was receiving oxygen. “My grandparent’s house,” he corrected with a role of his eyes. “Can’t believe yer first time there was when I wasn’ home.”

“’nly seem’d fair,” Daryl shrugged before shooting him a pointed look. “Ya went ‘n _my_ house wh’n I wasn’ there.”

“I was just tryin’ ta find clues ta where ya went,” Rick narrowed his eyes right back, reminding the redneck he had every right to be nosey.

“Th’n why were ya ‘n my bed?”

Rick gapped like a fish, “How did – I sat there for _two seconds_!” Daryl just raised his eyebrow at him so it disappeared behind his bangs.

“Takes long’r than two sec’nds ta leave yer scent, what were ya doin’ in my bed Grimes?”

“Ya know what I _smell_ like!?” Rick was sure he was red as a fucking tomato, and sure Daryl was just teasing him but Rick couldn’t even look at him in that moment as he scrambled to find a non-creepy answer. He had just fallen back onto the bed and laid there for a little while, it wasn’t _supposed_ to be anything intrusive but he couldn’t find a way to say what happened without sounding like a weirdo.

“Nothang, I just sat there while I wrote out tha’ note for you,” Rick ended up muttering quietly in reply, thanking God for that little post-it note, before a thought struck him. “Wait, ya left me that note – How did ya know which room was mine?” Now it was Daryl’s turn to look nervous, diverting his stare and actually physically backing away. 

“Shouldn’ we ge’t goin’,” he nodded towards the direction of the Grimes property through the swamp. “Much as I lov’ havin’ this littl’ heart ta heart out here ‘n the rain.”

“What’s wrong, Daryl,” Rick grinned that shit-eating grin at his friend, they should probably know better than to deflect attention by randomly changing subjects, it never worked. But he started on his way through the woods again anyway, before adding jokingly “ya ain’t been spyin’ on me, have ya?” 

Daryl just snorted in response. “In yer dreams, Grimes.”

\--

The boys made it through the rest of the swamp in good time. They reached the edge of the trees and saw the torrential downpour assaulting the Grimes estate, waves upon waves of relentless rain soaking the grounds. They broke out into a run, sprinting across the lawns and dodging under the massive low hanging branches of the giant Live Oaks and Magnolia trees when they could so they could see where they were going. The sky was almost black, storm clouds rolling and grumbling loudly, thunder clacking deafeningly nearby but the rain was so thick they couldn’t see any lightning strike. The plantation house stood a massive dark shadow up ahead of them, tall and sturdy as a mountain in the storm, and Rick reached the back door first, yanking it open and ducking into the dim mud room. 

Fumbling for the light switch, Rick let Daryl dive into the room just as it brightened with harsh florescent light. Both boys were soaked to the bone, sopping wet and dripping streams of water onto the stone floor. “Ya look like a drowned rat,” Rick snickered, causing Daryl to scowl and look down at himself, all long lean limbs and dripping long hair.

“An’ ya look like a drown’d poodle,” Daryl shot back, before shaking his head like a dog and sending water droplets flying everywhere. Rick shed his face with his arm and quickly slid into the next room still laughing loudly. The laundry room was connected to the mud room, right before you entered the kitchen, and the room was pleasantly warm in comparison to the harsh air-conditioned air of the mud room. Their clothes were drenched, and Rick knew both his Mother and Grandmother would reprimand him if he didn’t offer Daryl a clean set while they attempted to dry off. Starting to shiver a little bit, Rick reached into the warm dryer that felt like it had just ended its cycle not too long ago, and started rooting around for anything of his that might fit Daryl.

And tried _really hard_ to not focus on the fact that Daryl was going to be wearing _his_ clothes. 

He found a soft black T-shirt that Shane had borrowed at one point and definitely stretched out a little bit, and a pair of long red flannel pajama bottoms that had enough stretch that they would fit the redneck comfortably. 

When Rick returned, about to open his mouth with another remark, he saw Daryl hadn’t moved an inch from where he had left him. A pool of water below his feet, hands clenched at his sides, shoulders a straight line of tension, and eyes roaming each wall and corner and crack in the ceiling. 

“Daryl?” the redneck’s eyes snapped to him in an instant, on alert and lightly guarded. “You okay?” Daryl nodded, mouth in a tight line and not at all convincing. Fingers tracing the soft fabric in his hands, Rick stepped forward and handed over the bundle of clothes a little nervously. “Here, these should fit you,” Daryl took them cautiously and with a curious look on his face. “Mom will kill us if we drip water through the house. I’ll be in the laundry when yer done, we can dry yer clothes” Rick explained, nodding to the room next to them, and carefully stepped out to give him privacy. 

Back in the laundry room, Rick pulled off his T-shirt, peeling it away from his drenched skin with difficulty and letting it hit the floor with a wet slap. Followed by his pants and boxers, though he quickly scrambled into clean ones just in case Daryl came in sooner than he thought. He threw on his old gym shorts as they would be easier to pull over his damp skin, and was back to rooting through the dryer when he heard Daryl drop his wet clothes with Rick’s. Rick tossed him a towel from the dryer, still warm and smelling like dryer sheets. 

“Th’nks,” Daryl mumbled, immediately covering his head and trying to dry his long dark hair. 

“Can’t believe it started pourin’ like that,” Rick laughed, slinging a towel around his own shoulders to stop his dark curls from dripping cold water down his bare chest. “I know there’s another fucking shirt in here,” he muttered, leaning so far into the dryer his _gris-gris_ was bouncing off of the white metal lid. “A- _ha_!” with a shout of victory he revealed a soft grey shirt he often wore to bed, and quickly pulled the warm material over his head. “C’mon, this way,” he said to his guest, mimicking him and starting to towel off his dark curls as he led him into the kitchen. 

Or at least, he tried to.

“I can give ya the grand tour when we’re all dried off,” he said to the empty room. “I’m actually starvin’, so we can eat somethang while we’re waiting- Daryl?” Rick had turned around, pulling the now damp towel off his head to see Daryl hadn’t walked into the room yet. He had stopped at the threshold, and _God_ that was a little distracting, Daryl in _his_ clothes, hands resting on the frame of the doorway which reminded Rick in the most _awful_ way how much he use to stare at Daryl’s arms. But Daryl was staring intently at something on the doorframe, hands tracing it carefully, and Rick remembered the witch’s marks all over the estate, carved into most of the doorways. They were a comforting and well known addition that Rick never really thought about much anymore, just tracing his fingers over them as he walked from room to room.

In fact, he might have done it as he entered the kitchen just moments before.

No wonder Daryl had stopped in his tracks. 

“They’re all over,” he told him, and Daryl nodded his understanding. “At least, on all the doors facing the exits. I‘m guessin’ ta keep evil thangs out.”

“’r ta keep som’thin’ in,” Daryl said quietly, so quietly Rick almost didn’t hear him. He kind of wished he hadn’t, because something dark and terrifying shot down his spine. He had never thought about it like that before. He had wanted no reason to fear whatever haunted his grandparents’ house.

He was silent for a minute more, watching Daryl trace the mark with calm and caution and curiosity all at once. “Ya can come sit down if ya want,” Rick tried, seeming to break Daryl out of his little trance for a second. He had turned to regard Rick, but got deterred by something else in the room, something behind him. Which sent another horrifying chill racing through his veins, numbing and terrible and making his pulse echo in his ears, because Rick was alone in the kitchen.

None the less, Daryl took a few steps into the room, his hand rooted to the mark on the door until the very last second. 

Rick kept an eye on his friend, weary and confused and more than a little frightened at his bizarre behavior. It took Daryl another minute or two to make it to the kitchen table, looking about the room with heavy sweeping glances, but Rick suspected Daryl wasn’t actually looking _at_ the kitchen. It was almost like he was looking _through_ it, through the walls and sink and refrigerator to the bare bones that lay beyond the plaster and tiles and wallpaper. 

Luckily Daryl was so distracted he hadn’t noticed that Rick had been staring at him for the past five minutes. Rick noticed, though, and shook himself out of his stupor and started to rummage around the kitchen for anything to eat. 

“What’cha hungry for?” he asked Daryl, trying to also pull him out whatever daze he had fallen into.

“Any’thin’ really,” Daryl replied.

“So somethang with meat I’m guessin’,” Rick answered for him with a huff, of course even preoccupied by whatever was going on in his head Daryl had to still be _Daryl_. Rick already knew better than to fight him for a real opinion, he would just insist he didn’t care one way or the other. Stubborn _and_ considerate. 

Rick had pulled out some chicken from last night’s dinner and about ten other things to make sandwiches for him and Daryl, piling them on the counter and starting to make a right mess of the space as he tried to keep an eye on his friend while not slicing off his fingers. 

Daryl meanwhile just sat there at the table, glancing around the kitchen but mainly at the ceiling, eyes following an invisible path much like when he was tracking something in the woods, and it was making Rick’s nerves a little frayed. 

“What’s wrong?” Rick found himself asking, and though he _should_ have been focusing on whatever was clearly wrong with the redneck, he became more than a little captivated by the sight of his friend in his kitchen, and against his better judgment Rick started soaking in every inch of him. Soft locks of dirty blonde hair appearing darker when damp, a little wave to the strands with a few sticking to his skin and a few flying away from when he tousled his head earlier. The soft black T-shirt looked good on him, though a bit tight across his chest and around his arms. In fact, _Daryl_ looked good – here, in Rick’s house, wearing Rick’s clothes, soft and damp and clean. The fantasy broke when his gaze traced over the black eye bruising the left side of his face, and the cautious and weary look settled in his pale blue eyes. 

“It doesn’ like me here,” Daryl finally murmured, still not looking at Rick but at the same corner of the ceiling he had been drifting back to as he surveyed the room. He was eyeing it like something was _there_ , just out of sight, but if he kept looked long enough it would reveal itself. Something cold gripped at Rick’s chest, a fear he hadn’t felt in a long time, because Daryl had always said that the more you seek something out the more it will seek you right back, so Rick always did his best to never disturb whatever lay dormant in his grandparents’ house. He had been on good terms with it most of his life, but if it was reacting this badly to Daryl’s mere _presence_ then maybe the harmless ghost that wandered the halls at night wasn’t so harmless after all. 

Setting down the finished sandwichs in front of Daryl, Rick found himself once again staring intently at his friend’s face. But this time it wasn’t for the reason that had been churning his stomach for the past year.

“Do ya know what it is?” Rick asked quietly.

Daryl shook his head, eyes wandering the ceiling, but snapping back to the same corner in an instant. “Jus’ tha’ it’s angry,” he said lowly. “An’ it don’ like me much, neither.” 

A thud echoed through the room, from the floor above them, right where Daryl was staring. It had made Rick jump at little where he had been leaning against the table, and now he was looking at the ceiling too.

“Jesus,” Rick breathed, unearthing a bit of panic when he remembered how _yes_ , it does act violently when threatened. Visions of the door slamming on its own, against the wind, appeared in his mind, and his heart started to beat a little faster.

“No’ quite,” Daryl quipped with a smirk.

“Asshole,” Rick muttered back, though he was smiling a little too. “Why don’t they like you?”

“It knows wha’ I can do,” Daryl answered quietly. “Can prob’bly feel rem’nents from the Lwa on me, bits o’ magic ‘n blood ‘n smoke. Knows I know too much, how I can get rid o’ it if I want’d.” More thumps shook the ceiling from the floor above them. 

“I think it’s takin’ books off the shelves,” Rick said aloud, but trying to keep his voice quiet like Daryl was. Daryl hummed a non-committal noise in agreement, finally tearing his eyes away from the ceiling and watching his friend look about in wonder. “You couldn’t do all that before ya left.” Rick added. It wasn’t a question.

“Nope,” Daryl answered simply, but didn’t elaborate further. In fact he reached across to the plate Rick had sat down and started to stuff his mouth full of food. Rick knew it was just so it would be harder to answer any questions he may ask. 

“Guess you learned that while you were away?” Rick speculated. 

Daryl only nodded a little in confirmation, and went back to looking between the sandwich on his plate and the far corner of the ceiling. Rick picked at his own sandwich, because he really _was_ hungry, and had finished the whole thing in a few minutes and didn’t really take his eyes off of his friend the entire time. It took more courage than he would admit to finally open his mouth and ask the selfish question that had been repeating in his head like a broken record.

“Are you ever gonna tell me where ya went?” Rick asked, carefully, scared that he might be press too hard. The redneck had a tendency to shut down when asked too many prying questions. And Daryl _had_ clammed up earlier, he didn’t seem to want to talk about where he had been the past year. He was too preoccupied by whatever was haunting the house, anyway. But that seemed to be just the thing to say to get Daryl to forget about the thing in the room above them, because Rick had those pale blue eyes boring into him, sad and regretful and distant from the thoughts in the boy’s head. Rick only wished he would voice them.

Slowly, regretfully, and with a touch of apprehension, Daryl nodded in response. That short, curt tilt of his chin that spoke volumes. Yes, but not right now.

Even if he had wanted to, Daryl wouldn’t have had the chance to explain himself. Because suddenly they weren’t alone in the room anymore.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY KITCHEN!?” 

Both boys jumped to attention, Rick spinning around so hard he shifted the table, and Daryl actually scrambling out of his chair making it scrape loudly against the tile floor. 

“You’re _seriously_ making food! Right before dinner!” Rick’s Mom questioned, exasperated and shooting an irritated look at her son. 

“I missed lunch,” Rick answered back defensively. “We were just hungr-“

“And what’s with the mess all over the counter!” She gestured to the open container of last night’s chicken, the bread with the bag not closed, open bottles of mayo and mustard and various other toppings all piled on top of the marble island. Which also had bread crumbs and smears of condiments from the still dirty knife sitting on the edge of the sink.

“I was gonna clean it up.”

“The food ain’t gonna wait til yer done eating to start spolin’, Ricky,” his Mom scolded him, running her fingers through her long mess of brown curls much like Rick usually did, and sliding her hand over her eyes and nose as if blocking out the sight would make it disappear. “You need to clean it up _before_ ya sit down, it ain’t that hard-“ Mrs. Grimes cut herself off at the sight of the guest still standing next to her son. And he looked ready to _bolt_ , shifting on his feet, eyes firmly locked on the ground, and hands clenched tightly at his sides. “Oh, I’m so sorry dear,” Rick’s Mom all but cooed, causing Daryl to snap his eyes up to her green ones before diverting them again nervously. “I know this ain’t yer doin,” she sighed a little, a small smile playing at the side of her mouth. “You must be Daryl.”

“Y’s ma’m,” Daryl answered quietly, quickly, with a short nod of his head, and the whole image was just so _endearing_ that it made this huge, soft, and warm smile break out across her face. Rick wondered idly if that’s how he looked when he first started liking Daryl as well. He couldn’t help the grin on his own face, biting his lips to try and contain it. He just knew his Mom would love Daryl. 

“So polite,” Rick’s Mom teased, and Rick swore Daryl started to blush a little behind his bangs. “Well it’s nice to finally meet you, Daryl,” she told the redneck, and when her bright green eyes caught her son’s, he saw something mischievous spark in them. “I’ve heard so much about you, I don’t think Ricky’s shut up ‘bout’cha since he was little.” Rick’s jaw must have been on the floor. No. What was she doing. “Especially since las’ summer,” please don’t. “-calling Shane like clockwork askin’ bout ya-“

“ _Mom_ ,” Rick pleaded, turning red to the tips of his ears, just knowing Daryl was cutting glances at him.

“Don’t you _Mom_ me, yer still in trouble.”

“But-“

“Ah!” She held up her finger at him, silencing his protests and getting both boys’ attention once more. “Now,” she continued, locking eyes with her son again, “we do _not_ have a maid service, and my passion in life is not actually cleaning up after you. So,” she gestured to the piles of slowly warming food and the mess across the counter top with a swirl of her finger in the air “- Clean this mess up.” 

“Yes ma’am.”

“Y’s ma’m.”

They answered at the same time, and moved at the same time, Rick swiping the dishes off the table and Daryl making a beeline for the sink and messy countertop, snagging what was easily closed and starting to ferry them to the refrigerator. 

“Oh- Daryl, sweetheart, you don’t hav’ta clean,” Rick’s Mom called after him. “Yer a guest here, _Rick_ -“ she shot her son a look, begging him to convince his friend to stop assisting him.

“What?” Rick asked with a small smile. “Ya think I can stop him from helpin’?” 

“I won’ m’ss anythin’ up,” Daryl added, still really quiet, obviously not getting the whole ‘guest’ procedure. “I pr’mise.” 

“No, she’s sayin’ ya don’ hav’ta _clean_ , I made the mess so I’ll do it,” Rick translated.

But Daryl just shook his head resolutely, “Nah, I help’d eat it, I’ll do it.” 

Rick beamed wide, and looked back to his Mom, spreading his arms openly clearly saying _I tried_ before joining Daryl by the sink and started wiping down the counter. The redneck was already scrubbing the dirty plates clean beneath the running water, and Mrs. Grimes couldn’t help but sigh heavily at the sight. Her mother was probably turning over in her grave right about then.

“Fine, I suppose’,” she muttered, watching how the two boys worked in tandem, and didn’t really communicate verbally, but just seemed to know where the other was and what they were doing. Rick didn’t have to ask for the soaped up wash cloth to clean the counter, and Daryl didn’t have to ask Rick to help dry dishes when he was done, they just did each task like it was already laid out for them. Only slight nods and some almost non-verbal grunts from the redneck and they had cleaned their whole mess up in a matter of minutes. Or Rick’s mess. 

“Guess I’ll go find yer Grandmother, see what she’s hungry for tonight,” Rick’s Mom said, her words echoing to the empty room and falling on deaf ears, the two boys absorbed in their task. More focused getting use to each other’s presence so near to each other for the first time in a year than noticing that there was someone else in the room. Talking to them. Standing there waiting for an answer. She laughed a little when she noticed she was being ignored. “Rick?”

“Hm? Yeah – ’kay,” Rick finally answered distractedly, drying off another plate and then putting it in the cabinet. How he had used four plates to make two sandwiches, she decided she really didn’t want to know.

“And Daryl?” Rick’s Mom called, one hand on the door frame and looking back over her shoulder at the two boys just as Daryl turned off the sink and handed Rick the last plate to dry. “You’re staying for dinner.” 

Daryl paused his movements, halfway through wiping his wet hands on his borrowed pajama pants and stared at the woman like a deer in the headlights. He seemed to have lost the ability to form words, opening his mouth to speak and then closing it, looking frantically between Rick and his Mother. Rick caught his eyes and just shrugged at him, a small smirk on his face and handing him the dish towel to dry his hands. It was ultimately up to the redneck to accept the invitation, so Rick only smiled wider when his friend didn’t seem to understand. “Only if ya want to,” Rick said calmly, trying to reassure the other boy.

“Oh, that’s wasn’t a request, sweetheart,” Rick’s Mom smiled sweetly, an identical smirk to her son’s playing across her lips. “Be down in an hour, boys.” She added with a nod and then turned and headed down the hallway. Rick couldn’t help the smile and huff of laughter that escaped his chest. 

Daryl just looked like he wasn’t sure what just happened, so Rick shook his head at the questioning look Daryl sent his way and just started in the same direction as his Mother. “Com’on,” he gestured with a jerk of his chin towards the door. “Let’s go upstairs, we can hang in my room til dinner.” 

\--

The grand tour of the house didn’t happen quite as Rick had planned. He had no intentions of showing off the large plantation house, only to show Daryl around, the ins and outs of what he considered something like a childhood home to him.

However, it took them almost half an hour to just make it up the stairs and down the few corridors to Rick’s designated room. Daryl stopped almost every ten feet, and sometimes quite literally that exact distance, tensing up and jerking his head in a particular direction, as if hearing something or seeing an image out of his peripheral. Every single step they took had to be inspected, each hallway and room they passed had something just out of sight, and Daryl took it all in with sharp suspicious eyes, jaw clenched shut and shoulders a straight line of tension. The stairs alone took ten minutes, the redneck’s pale blue eyes straying to the giant chandelier that hung from the ceiling more than once.

When Rick reached the top of the stairs, noticing Daryl had only made it a little past the second landing, he sighed and was about to chide his friend to get a move on. His Grandmother could climb the damn staircase faster than the other, and he had opened his mouth to say so when Daryl’s eyes snapped to the chandelier again. A chime echoed around the vaulted room, the crystals on the chandelier clinking together with sudden movement, and Rick turned around so fast his neck strained from the whiplash. Nothing was there, just the strands of clear glass swaying with no way for them to have moved unless something had physically _touched_ them. 

“…Daryl?”

“I know, I saw it,” Daryl murmured. “Jus’ keep movin’.” 

“Why’s it doin’ this?” Rick asked, but kept his feet moving one in front of the other, Daryl trailing behind him just a little slower. Cautiously, like trying to not spook an animal. And Rick’s heart was fucking _racing_ by the time he reached the safety of his room. He had never been so afraid of his own house before, sure he always felt like there was something there, but it never felt malicious, Rick never felt like the thing in his Grandparent’s house wanted to hurt him.

But it wanted Daryl _gone_. 

When Daryl finally made it to his bedroom, the redneck stopped at the threshold of his door, hands lightly resting on the door frame, but not entering the room. Rick had watched him stop, almost like he had stopped before hitting something, had looked up and around the doorway as if looking for something that was stopping him – like something that had _made_ him want to stop walking. His sharp pale blue eyes were scanning everything and nothing all at once again, searching for something that Rick wasn’t able to see. 

“Ya need an invitation?” Rick asked with a nervous smile.

“It might help,” Daryl answered slowly, still leaning on the doorway. His hands grasped the frame, and normally Rick would be tracing the contours of his arms hungrily with his eyes, because the fading light from outside looked _so damned good_ on the Dixon. But his heart was hammering inside his chest from fear instead of lust, and his breath felt tight and thin in his chest making it hard to breathe. He didn’t know what to do.

“Seriously?” Rick blanched, trying to regain any sort of mental footing, “It really wants me to give ya permission, I let you in my house ain’t that enough?” 

“Yeah but- this is yer room,” Daryl said, a little nervous as if he just remembered that bit of information himself, and something like butterflies fluttered in Rick’s stomach past the knowing fear. “It’s jus’ lookin’ out fer ya, seems ta like ya. And this isn’ jus’ yer room. It’s yer bedroom, it’s mor’ person’l, mor’…” but he trailed off, doing everything to not meet Rick’s eyes.

 _Intimate_ , Rick’s brain supplied, and his breath stuttered a little bit. The fear subsided and he started to – _No_ , he clenched his jaw and shook his head a bit, he told himself he wasn’t going to think like that. Not when he just got Daryl back. “By all means, please come in,” he state loudly and boldly, flourishing a little bit. Daryl did cut him a scathing look from under his bangs at his sarcasm, but Rick only shot him a shit-eating grin in return. “I promise I’m decent.”

“Thank God fer that,” Daryl grumbled back, slowly stepping into the room and paused, waiting for a reaction that he knew would come. It took Rick a few seconds to realize the room was growing colder, a chill tracing over his skin and the windows starting to fog from the temperature difference on either side of the glass.

“Oh for shit’s sake,” Rick growled at nothing, “ _please_ just _stop_ ,” and it was like time froze, and Daryl’s eyes were wide and stuck on him. “What?” Rick tried to defend himself. “I invited ya in! It can’t just leave us in peace? Damn.” The room grew so cold so fast Rick could see his breath starting to mist in front of him, and the sounds from outside of the rain and thunder were starting to become fainter and fainter. Rick breathed deep, letting the air form in front of him slowly, trying to calm his racing heart as terror started to settle in his bones. He had learned that his best defense when he was nervous or scared was when he became very, very still; it allowed him to channel the racing adrenaline to his head so he could try to think straight. Because if he didn’t he would just lash out, panic, like he just did. And _fuck_ could he tell he screwed up, did he really just cuss out the ghost haunting his Grandparents’ house?

“I… I shouldn’t have done that,” Rick guessed.

Daryl was shaking his head slowly. “Nah, tha’ was pretty stupid.” They weren’t standing close, a bit of the room between them, and they were looking at each other like they needed to be back to back, Rick wanted nothing more to close that gap but something like dread hung in the air. Tension of something waiting to happen.

“Now what,” Rick asked quietly, swallowing audibly.

Daryl was quiet for a moment, had taken a step or two towards him, eyes darting from Rick’s face to around the room and back to him again. “Ya… ya got any salt in tha’ kitchen?”

Rick nodded, matching his slow steps until they were close enough that Rick could feel the heat coming off of Daryl in contrast to the cold room. It made him feel safer, more grounded. “How much ya need?”

“A lot. An’ som’ candles.”

\--

They made it back to the kitchen; dipping past Rick’s Mom, who had returned not long after they retreated upstairs and was busy cooking dinner, and into the walk-in pantry. They actually made a pretty good team, able to use Daryl’s silent footsteps to get him behind the island in the center of the room, and the redneck’s sharp ears to figure out when Rick should move. Vague hand signals and slight nods were all they needed to communicate, and they made it in and out of the kitchen with armfuls of candles, a handful of sage from the garden that Daryl saw last minute and snagged without a word, and a bag of rock salt slung over Daryl’s shoulder. 

Getting back to Rick’s room was the tricky part, because it was pretty obvious what they were doing. It seemed slamming doors and pushing things off of shelves were the spirit’s go-to scare tactics. It only spooked them once, but then they were even more determined to get back to Rick’s room quickly. Rick had always thought the thing in his Grandparents’ house was more mischievous than dangerous, liking to pull pranks and drift in and out of rooms curiously. He had always imagined it was a kid, probably because he _was_ a kid when he first discovered it, the ghost of a kid who was only trying to find ways to keep from getting bored. Pushing items off of tables like a cat, digging through his things, turning on the radio every now and then. It was always partial to oldies stations. If it _was_ a kid, then this was the equivalent of it throwing a tantrum, because it was _not_ happy with them.

They hastily made it up the stairs and down the hall, and closed and locked Rick’s door so Rick’s Grandparents wouldn’t see what was going on. The last thing Rick needed was his Grandmother wandering in telling them it was time for dinner and see a voodou ritual laid out on the floor. 

Daryl motioned for Rick to help him, and together they slid Rick’s bed all the way over to the far wall, giving them more floor space to work with. And then they rolled up the embroidered rug, leaving only the empty hardwood floor. 

“Make’a big circl’ with the candles,” Daryl instructed, pulling a switchblade out of his pocket and flicking it open in well practiced movements, stabbing the bag of rock salt and cutting a decent sized hole in the top. He then started to pour the salt in a thick line, also in a circle, walking backwards so he could keep an eye on how even the curve was. Rick started placing the unlit candles after him, just a few inches from the salt line until they had a complete circle a good few feet across in the center of Rick’s bedroom. “Li’te ‘em up then ge’t inside the circle,” Daryl added, tossing his zippo lighter to his friend before starting to make a smaller circle of salt within the first one. 

Rick made quick work of lighting the candles, and there were quite a bit of them, a little over a dozen, then stepped between the lines of salt, carefully watching Daryl as he started to make a giant five point star inside the second circle. 

“What does that mean?” Rick asked, pointing towards the star. “I’ve seen ya use it before. But I also seen it in horror movies and stuff, usually havin’ to do with the devil or a demon or somethin’.”

The redneck huffed at the description. “Fig’ures, mov’ies always fuck up ritu’ls.”

“So it doesn’t mean anything evil?”

“Wh’n it’s upsid’-down it does,” Daryl clarified. “Th’n it attrac’ts evil and anythin’ else sin’ist’r, repr’sents the ov’rturnin’ of ord’r and nature. ‘Cause it kinda looks like a goat, which is a symb’l fer Satan, the horns bein’ the two points goin’ up. Like this, with the one point up, ‘s called a pentagram. For clensin’ and settin’ things back ta how they sho’ld be. Balance. Stands fer the five sense, five elements, Christ’ans use it a lot too. Means purity, strength, repr’sents their belief. ‘lot o’ cultures use it, so it’s a good symbol to use when blessin’ a house with a spirit ‘n it.”

“So… it’ll bless the house?”

“Nah, it’s jus’ a symbol. I’m usin’ it like a power source fer good en’rgy. Br’ng back tha’ balance. Whatev’r’s here ain’t goin’ nowhere withou’ a serious exorcism. Good news is it likes ya, so I’m jus’ gettin’ rid o’ all this neg’tive en’rgy.” He finished the star and lit candles on each point, then went over to where he dropped all the sage on Rick’s desk and started to bundle the strands. Making sure they were tied together towards the base, the stems smaller than the rest of the plant, making it billow out in the shape of a baseball bat only much much smaller. “Or at leas’ keep it from throwin’ me ou’ the window.”

A heavy pain settled in Rick’s stomach. “I-It wouldn’t really do that, would it?”

Daryl cut his eyes over to Rick, and the desk lamp started to flicker until it just went out, leaving only the lit candles on the floor and the near non-existent glow from the dying sun as their only source of light. “Dep’nds how much I piss it off.” Daryl reached for the collection of artifacts from the swamp and forest atop Rick’s dresser, and picked up a long brown and black feather, belonging to a hawk or other large bird of prey. He then snagged the lighter from Rick and set the bundle of sage on fire on the larger end until a good billow of smoke started to waft from it. 

It smelled sweet and spicy at the same time, strong and making the air move through Rick’s lungs easier. Daryl started to move around the room, within the big circle of rock salt but not stepping over the star, in fact Rick noticed he was walking clockwise, and was using the feather to spread the thick white smoke through the air. 

Actually, the whole thing looked familiar.

“My Grandmother does that,” Rick found himself saying out loud. “I don’t remember what she called it, though.”

Daryl just nodded as he continued his way around the room. “Lot a names fer it. She done it lat’ly?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It shows,” Daryl murmured. “’t’s why this nev’r go’ outta control b’fore. Guess she’s been doin’ this fer years, it’s takin’ to it pretty well.” The room was already growing warmer, the sounds of rain softly beating against the glass once again filling the room. 

“Why?” Rick wondered, talking quietly to himself more than to Daryl. “Why would she keep it around?”

Daryl finished his circle around the room, and set the burning bundle in a bowl that was probably supposed to be decoration but he moved it from its place on the desk to a spot on the floor inside the circle, and then lowered himself until he was sitting cross-legged in front of the five-point star. “Dunno, ol’ family member maybe?”

“God, I hope not,” Rick tried to laugh, and mimicked Daryl’s position on the floor on the opposite side of the circle. Watching Daryl bring the bowl up, which had filled with thick white smoke and used his hand to fan some of it into his face, where he breathed deeply, and then let out the longest and slowest exhale that visibly loosened every muscle in his arms, shoulders, and face. He seemed to take a minute to let it settle, before he opened his eyes and saw Rick watching him curiously from across the circle. 

With a small nod, Daryl gestured for Rick to lean closer to him, so Rick obliged shifting to his knees and leaning so far over the five-point star he had to brace himself on his hands, careful not to touch anything inside the circle of rock salt. The candles burned hotly close to his skin, and he watched them carefully before looking up at Daryl expectantly. Daryl’s eyes shown with conflict and emotion, clearly at war with himself; the calm of the sage taking over every muscle fighting with something dark and hungry in his pale eyes that Rick was too scared to recognize. 

In fact, Rick was so lost in the fact that he _did_ know what that look meant and how he was absolutely _not_ going to do anything about it that he didn’t notice Daryl had blown the thick white smoke towards his face until he was inhaling the bittersweet burn of smoldering weeds. He choked and coughed as soon as he breathed it in, curling back in on himself and almost retreating back across the circle. But found Daryl had him by the wrist, his other hand still holding the bowl of burning sage. 

“Breathe,” Daryl instructed. “Big breath’s.” And then he helped by inhaling so much that Rick could see his chest expanding, and then letting the breath out through lightly parted lips. Rick mimicked him, breathing in until the oxygen overpowered the smoke. “Good, now try agai’n.” Rick nodded his understanding, and watched Daryl bring the bowl back up to his face and blow softly so the smoke flowed towards his face. 

This time, when he breathed in, he breathed slower, and did _not_ focus on Daryl Dixon sitting only a few inches from him. Did _not_ focus on how vulnerable he felt stretched out over the candles and star on the floor, and instead focused on _breathing_. He was surprised to find the relaxed and comforting feeling that flowed through his muscles as he took in the sweet smell. He had closed his eyes at some point, and could feel every muscles relax; Daryl had let go of his wrist and was now gently pushing on his shoulder so Rick would sit back on his side of the circle. He didn’t feel high, though the sage smelled a little like marijuana, just relaxed and good. A positive good, something affirmative and constructive, and the space around him felt like it belonged to _him_ rather than to the house. Or whatever lurked in the house. His room felt like _his_ room for the first time in years. 

“Wow,” Rick smiled lazily, and watched a small smirk quirk at the corner of Daryl’s mouth as well. The redneck had closed his eyes again and was focusing on something rather intently, but still controlled and relaxed, letting the sage burn out inside the bowl and the smoke pour over the ceramic side and onto the floor.

Rick really hated to break the serene atmosphere the redneck had created, but he never got to finish his conversation in the kitchen. And now that whatever was in his Grandparents’ house was happy with Daryl being in it, he knew now was the time to get his answers.

And he knew right where to start.

“So – where were you?” Rick asked carefully, making Daryl slowly open his eyes and stare at him from across the circle, candlelight dancing softly across his skin highlighting his cheekbones and reflecting in his eyes. “Why did ya leave? Did something happen?” Daryl’s gaze had skittered down to the star on the floor, the soft glow from the flames played across his features. As stoic and controlled as they ever were when faced with questions he didn’t want to answer. He breathed deeply through his nose, not answering but not looking at Rick either. “ _Daryl_ ,” Rick pleaded, causing Daryl to snap his intense and expressive stare back up to the other boy, pale blue locking with his own, and Rick could practically read the story behind those eyes. Daryl had _so much_ to tell him, he _wanted_ to, but something was holding him back. Did he just not know how to start? “The night of the fight,” Rick started for him, “Merle took ya home. Why was Merle even here, I thought he was over seas?”

“Dishon’r’ble discharge,” Daryl muttered quietly, not breaking his gaze with Rick. “Su’pris’d he wasn’ court marshell’d.”

“What did he do?”

“He don’ talk ‘bout it,” Daryl was answering him with quiet, controlled sentences. Being extra careful with his words, and Rick felt like he was physically pulling teeth. 

“So,” he continued, dropping the subject of Merle easily, and resisting the urge to clench his jaw in frustration, “when ya got home, what happened?”

Daryl swallowed audibly, dragging his gaze away again. “… went ta bed-”

“ _Daryl_ ,” Rick exasperated. 

“Merle woke me up earl’y,” Daryl barreled on, making Rick close his mouth with a snap. He should’ve known to wait, Daryl always gets out what he needs to with time, he just needs to pick his words carefully so he doesn’t have to say many. But this was a story that would take a while to tell, and only because it was Rick asking would Daryl tell it. “Mus’ta been two ‘n the mornin’, still dark out, birds were still quiet. Told me ta pack up ever’ythin’, anythin’ we could carry.” 

“He said we wer’ goin’ to Nain’s for a while, which- I didn’ think much o’fit. Pa us’ta send us off fer weeks at’ta time, get us outta his hair fer a while.” He sighed, not used to talking so much in one sitting using his own words, but Rick hadn’t broken his stare from across the circle, small flames dancing around them and the smell of sage hanging heavy in the air. “So I grabb’d all my stuff. Books, clothes, blank’ts, anythin’ I’d miss.”

“When I load’d it all in Merle’s truck, saw he’d pack’d the whole damn house. All our guns and kniv’es, my crossbow, our whol’ fuckin’ ki’chen. I guess… I jus’ trust’d him, Nain’ only liv’es a few towns ov’r. I could make it back in twen’y minutes, I didn’-“ he trailed off then, but Rick understood. Daryl had this blind faith in his older brother, and a tendency to try and rationalize his faults and mistakes, the poor decisions that led them to the run down lifestyle in a house that was falling apart around them. His Pa too, although where he had fear for his Old Man, he had this admiration for his brother that Rick had yet to understand how he had earned. Something from their childhood that Daryl didn’t want to share, or remember. 

A small smile fluttered across the redneck’s face. “Was gonna com’ back, steal ya away fer a few days.” And Rick’s heart jumped in his chest at the thought. “Nain’e has these big stor’ge cell’rs full of all sorts’a plants an’ herbs and stuff fer rituals. Her sist’r’s got a huge farm too. Though’ you’d like it.”

“Bu’…. I was st’ll so fuckin’ tired from tha’ fight, think I did have a cun’cussion, an’ I fell asleep on the way ou’. An’ when I woke up – I could see mount’ains.”

“Miss’d us passin’ through Atlanta, rec’gniz’d the way ta Uncle Jess’ place. Way up North. We brew a few types’a shine up there, all the flavor’d shit tha’ sells durin’ Spring Break. _Fuck_ , I was piss’d at them, they should’a fuckin’ told me they chang’d their minds. Somethin’ had gone wrong and Jess needed us, but – it’s ‘bout a four hour drive from here. I didn’… I didn’ wan’ta jus’ leave ya here. ‘M… sorry I worried ya so much,” towards the end Daryl started to murmur, get quieter, looking more and more guilty.

“Hey,” Rick said, trying to grab his friend’s attention. “It’s okay, not your fault ya got dragged across the state. I was worried I had done somethang that made ‘em-“

“No,” Daryl said suddenly. “It wasn’ you. Just some fuckin’ probl’ms with the folks we sell to down South.”

“So, you were there the whole time?” Rick asked, shame filling him a bit because he had been _in_ Atlanta just yesterday. Had been there for the past six weeks.

“Nah, jus’ through the end o’ September. Borin’ summer, spen’ mos’ of it sleepin’ caus’ all the rit’als we did up there. Wore me out. Merle had’ta lock up his bike, almost gotta hold o’ it, was gonna drive all nigh’ jus’ta get home.”

“What stopped ya,” Rick asked.

“Uncle Jess,” Daryl answered with a small bitter smile. “Told me it wasn’ safe fer us to be home. Had’ta wait ‘til they fig’red everythin’ out. So we were there until way pas’ end o’ summer, _then_ we head’d to Naine’s place. Fuckin’ fickle bastards.”

“Why didn’t ya go back to school, then?” Rick asked. “You were only 20 minutes away, right?”

Daryl got really quiet then, refusing to look at Rick once more. “I-“ he tried to start. “I want’d to. I really did, want’d nothin’ more than ta come back home. I don’-“ his face had gotten more solemn and angry as he thought about it, and Rick was regretting asking. “I don’ want ta jus’ be anoth’r fuckin’ high school dropout, but Pa said we couldn’ go home, and there was no fuckin’ way he was gonna enroll me somewhere else. Not worth it.” Rick ground his teeth and breathed deep through his nose to try and control the rage that filled his chest at that statement. “Guess Walsh was right.”

“No,” Rick almost shouted, making Daryl snap his head up. “That ain’t – yer worth _ten_ of any of them, so don’t say yer not worth it. You can always go back, Daryl, yer home now. You can do whatever you want, anythang you want, ya don’ have to go down that same path if ya don’t want to.” Daryl was staring at him again but Rick just _couldn’t stop_. “You want to go back to school, finish and get a degree, then do _it_ , for _you_ , not for them.”

“They won’ take me back.”

“Bull _shit_ they won’t, it’s only been a year,” Rick argued. “I’ll help if I can-“

“Rick, STOP,” Daryl said firmly, and any more words died in Rick’s throat. “Jus’… _stop_. I- my fam’ly’s go’ bigg’r probl’ms righ’ now. I can’ think about school, ‘m no’ goin’ back fer a while. If I ev’r do.”

Rick didn’t know what to say, keeping his lips pressed tight so he wouldn’t have the urge to say any more, he wasn’t going to win right now. He didn’t have the whole story. What could be so horrible that Daryl was putting his entire life on hold? So he just nodded, and let Daryl continue on.

“We spen’ the whole summ’r fixin’ the damn distillers, Pa spen’ mos’ o’ the time on the phone screamin’ at people. At night, they’d ge’ me ta lead the rit’als and pray’rs, bu’ I didn’ know wha’ I was doin’ half the time,” Daryl admitted, shaking his head a bit. “Took fore’vr to conv’nce the Old Man I need’d more trainin’. That’s when we wen’ to Nain’e’s sist’r’s ou’ in Lib’rty, so she co’ld help me learn how ta do this m’self.”

“I did en’ up stealin’ Merle’s bike,” the redneck told him. “Bu’ it was Sep’tmber and you were already gone. Though’ – maybe I’d catch ya b’fore ya left.” What Rick would have given to see Daryl riding up on Merle’s bike as they were leaving for Kentucky last year, he didn’t know what he would’ve done besides scramble out of the car and go to his friend. Probably yell at him, ignore his personal space boundary and walk right up to him and hug him tight to make sure he was real. He hadn’t figured out what the squirming feeling in his stomach meant yet back then so he wouldn’t even think about grabbing him by the face and-

“Sounds like a busy summer,” Rick said with a small smile, distant and nervous and a little uneasy but still trying to lighten the heavy mood set in the room. Daryl understood anyway and followed his lead.

“Ain’ even ment’on’d Florida yet,” Daryl smirked back at him. 

“Florida?”

“Fin’lly lef’ Georgia,” Daryl said with a smile, a _real_ smile though it was small. “Nev’r done that b’fore. Saw the ocean, end’d up in a voodou distr’ct down on the coast. Got ta meet a real witch doct’r, watch’d a prop’r rit’ual, how it’s _suppos’d_ ta be done.” He heaved a sigh that wasn’t out of happiness, and a grave look fluttered across his face. “Lot happen’d down there.”

“Not all good, I take it,” Rick murmured.

Daryl shook his head sadly, but his head jerked up towards the door before he could continue. “Yer Mom’s comin’ fer us.”

Rick scrambled to his feet and darted out the door, almost running right into his Mother as she approached his room.

“Woah!” she shouted, “ _Jesus_ , Rick! Yer just dead set on giving me a heart attack today!”

“Sorry,” he grinned brightly – to hide his apprehension, the anxiety clawing at his throat because he had a five-point star on the floor of his bedroom made of rock salt and a circle of candles slowly leaving little rings of melted wax on the hardwood. “We were just on our way down, dinner ready?”

“Yeah,” she answered slowly, eyeing her son with a stare full of suspicion. “What were you two doing in there?” The look she sent Rick’s way matched with the slight tilt of her head Rick had only seen once, when he had brought Allison home one day after school and had kept his door shut for very _obvious_ reasons he had thought. Rick’s own eyes went wide and he knew his face was heating up, she couldn’t think – he shook his head in short little spasms to tell her _No, and STOP TALKING about it PLEASE_ just as Daryl slid out of the room as well. Careful not to open the door too wide to reveal the ritual on the floor inside. Unfortunately the smell of sage hung heavily on the redneck’s borrowed clothes, and it smelled a little like something else. His Mom’s eyes only had a chance to get really wide before Rick was near shouting.

“It’s sage!” he exclaimed, and he could feel Daryl snap his eyes over to him at his outburst. “Just sage, we were burning sage.” His Mother was still staring at him, though her eyes flickered over to Daryl for a second.

“…Why,” she asked, drawing out the word slowly. And Rick was biting his tongue to try and keep his mouth shut so he wasn’t gaping like a fish, trying desperately to find an answer.

“I did it,” Daryl said suddenly, making both Grimes’ look at him. “Rick said he f’lt like somethin’ was botherin’ ‘im at night, so I smudg’d the room.” Mrs. Grimes blinked at him, but it changed her shocked expression to one of surprised regard. She actually looked a little impressed. 

“The only person I know who knows how to smudge a room is Rick’s Grandmother,” she said wistfully with a small smile. “Who taught you?”

“Nain’aine,” Daryl answered out of habit, but quickly elaborated. “She’s like a – godmoth’r, kinda. Knew my Mom, taught us a’lot.” He trailed off, mumbling the last few words around his thumb, which he had ended up biting at nervously, averting his eyes again. 

“I see,” Rick’s Mom hummed with a smile. “Ya can tell us about it over dinner. C’mon, can’t leave yer Grandparent’s waiting long, they’ll eat everythang and box up the rest before we get down there.” And then she happily steered the two boys down the hallway. 

She noticed the way Daryl flinched away from her touching his shoulder, but was intuitive enough to not mention it to the redneck, instead she just made eye contact with her son that spoke volumes of the conversation they were going to have later. 

\--

Rick’s Grandmother _loved_ Daryl. 

Like _loved_ loved him. Rick was pretty sure she was about to disown him and just adopt the redneck as her new grandson. 

Or leave his grandpappy and marry him, Rick wasn’t actually sure. 

She didn’t let him alone for more than a minute, even though Rick was the one who had just gotten back that afternoon and she would usually grill him over the school year and what nice girl he was seeing and defiantly about the camp he had just attended. But Daryl was absolutely _fascinating_ to the older woman, especially after Rick’s Mom mentioned that Daryl had ‘borrowed’ some sage to smudge Rick’s bedroom. 

“Ya should have said somethin’ Rick,” he Grandmother scolded him. “I know I been slackin’ on keepin’ up with this old place, but the spirits that live here need to be taken care of too.”

“Yes ma’am, ‘m sorry” Rick had said, a little breathless and more than a little shocked, he _knew_ she knew all about what was in the house, but he hadn’t guessed how much. 

She asked all about Nain’aine, what he knew about the spirits in the house, if he recognized the marks on the doors, and even started in on different aspects of his religion that Daryl still hadn’t revealed to the group. Daryl would never out right say that he practiced voodou, or that his family served the Lwa, but he didn’t seem to need to because Rick’s Grandmother somehow already _knew_. It was probably the first time Daryl got to speak like this with anyone in White Oak that wasn’t Rick about his religion, and he shot confused and amazed glances at Rick all through the meal. Maybe it was just a Grimes thing. 

Daryl devoured his dinner like he was starving, and tended to eat with his fingers despite having utensils right next to his plate. It was a little distracting, to say the least, how he’d suck the juice from the steak from his long fingers, and Rick decided around that time that he was glad no one was really talking to him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to form coherent words, especially after Daryl caught him staring. He spent the remainder of dinner mostly staring intently at his plate. 

The rain had stopped sometime right before they sat down to eat. A light mist still covered the ground, the contrast of the warm wet earth meeting the cool air, and in the swamp the air was muggy and humid but smelled clean and fresh. Rick had given Daryl his dry clothes, but insisted he could keep the black T-shirt, it didn’t fit him anymore anyway. Both boys pulled on their boots, and Rick’s Mom leaned in the doorway to the kitchen watching them.

“You come back and see us soon, Daryl,” she said with a smile.

“Yes m’am.”

“And Rick? Don’t stay out too late, alright?”

“Yes ma’am,” Rick mimicked with a smirk, though Daryl turned a confused look towards him as Rick’s Mom retreated back into the house. The boys had done the dishes after dinner, so she didn’t have to clean anything and could tend to Rick’s Grandparents without distractions. 

“Yer comin’ with me?” Daryl asked.

“You just got back,” Rick clarified, like that was a reason.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Daryl said solidly, once he understood Rick’s reasoning. “Jus’ home.”

“I know, but you really think I’m gonna let ya walk back alone? I ain’t done with you yet,” Rick grinned. “Yer lucky I didn’t lock ya in my room.” Daryl had opened his mouth to protest but Rick cut him off with a hand in the air and stepping up into his space again. “Just – let me have this? Please?” Daryl clamped his mouth shut, and nodded a little reluctantly, but Rick would take his victories where he could get them, and just smiled brightly at his triumph.

\--

The walk back to the Dixon property was quiet for the most part, just the chorus of cicadas and crickets and bullfrogs echoing between the damp trees. Daryl had probably said more that night than in the whole past year, so he was done trying to make conversation, and Rick just didn’t know what to say anymore. He had so many questions he still wanted answered, but he got the important ones out of the way at least. Daryl hadn’t wanted to leave White Oak, and _had_ worried about Rick just as much as Rick had worried about him. Rick hadn’t done anything that drove the family away, to drive his friend away, and having that worry lifted off of his shoulders made him feel fifty pounds lighter. His heart no longer felt like it was going to sink into his stomach, and he trusted that the friendship he and Daryl had was as strong as he always believed it was. 

Rick tried to keep conversation up in fragments at first, but then realized they didn’t really need to speak. Spending so much time away from the redneck Rick had forgotten what comfort came with the silence, it wasn’t stifling or awkward, it was easy and effortless. They were just _them_ , and Rick could feel that gaping hole in his chest fill with each passing moment. He had missed Daryl _so much_ , so much that he had forgotten all the little things that he loved about the other boy. Or, not a boy anymore, a man. Because he was a man now, or becoming one, taking responsibility, prioritizing his life, and still helping his friend as he had done for years. Rick was certain now that he wouldn’t be there, alive, if it weren’t for Daryl Dixon. How many times did he owe the other for saving his life? When they were small, by the clearing, leading him to his house when they were twelve, keeping the Shadow People from stealing him in the night, making the _gris-gris_ to keep him safe even when the redneck wasn’t around to do so, having his back in the fist-fight when Rick was trying so desperately to do the same. Daryl was always looking out for him, and Rick had no idea how he could ever pay the other boy back. But he was determined to spend the rest of his life trying. 

Ending up leading most of the way, Rick had to constantly turn around and bring the Dixon up to keep him by his side. Daryl’s default seemed to always be walking one step behind Rick. But Rick knew that his friend knew the woods better than anyone else, and he had no right to lead. So when Daryl would motion for him to go ahead of him when they crossed bogs and other close knit areas of brush where they couldn’t walk shoulder to shoulder, he would just shake his head and let Daryl lead instead. Which would cause the redneck to huff in exasperation with a small scowl, but ultimately he would end up doing what Rick said. Rick wasn’t sure how he had gained this authority over the other, but Daryl seemed to be going with his lead _all the time_ , and Rick was trying _really_ hard to not let that go to his head. 

Or to anywhere else in his anatomy.

The light had completely faded from the sky, casting the swamp in dark shades of blue and grey and black, shadows swallowing up the ground and crawling up the sides of the trees. Somewhere in the back of his mind Rick knew he should probably be a little apprehensive about the darkness, after his childhood terror of being chased through the forest by Shadow People, but Daryl was walking with such confidence and ease that Rick couldn’t really find anything to worry about. It was only when he ducked under a low hanging branch that Daryl kept lifted high for him that he noticed that something under his shirt was actually _glowing_. He stopped in his tracks, and Daryl came to stand beside him, the soft glow from beneath Rick’s shirt catching the shimmer of sweat on his arms and face. 

Rick almost opened his mouth to say something, but he just looked at Daryl who was smirking at him. The _gris-gris_ still worked it seemed, but Rick had never seen it glow like this. And now Rick knew why Daryl was so at ease in the forest, he was like a damn force field against anything that could want to harm them. For once, _Daryl_ was safe with Rick _because_ of Rick; he was safer _with_ him, and that made Rick grin wide and bright. 

They made it to the Dixon property a few minutes later, the moon just a sliver in the sky and the stars a speckled blanket of stories and myths laid out above them, a few clouds rolling on the horizon from the storm earlier that day. Rick wasn’t sure why he kept following Daryl, they had made it back just fine, in fact Daryl was probably the last person Rick should ever worry about in the swamp at night. But they circled around the house, seeing the empty gravel lot crawling with shadows from the constantly moving trees, and came up to Daryl’s window again. 

Heaving himself up with the window ledge, Daryl shimmied through the open window, and suddenly Rick wasn’t sure what to do. The other boy didn’t turn around and say goodnight, didn’t shut the window in his face, just kicked off his muddy boots and started lighting candles on top of his dresser. If that wasn’t an invitation Rick didn’t know what was, but… he wasn’t sure what was happening. His heart started to beat faster within his chest, his rib cage felt like it was constricting around his chest cavity, making it hard to breathe and emphasizing his racing pulse as it thumped loudly against his bones. He tired to breathe deep, to relax and force the adrenaline pumping through him to go back to wherever the fuck it came from because _nothing_ was happening. Daryl’s family was gone, so they were free to hang out. That was it.

It was a little bit of a struggle, but Rick made it through the window, a lot less gracefully than Daryl had, and he could tell Daryl was trying his hardest to not outright laugh at him. Rick huffed as he picked himself up off the floor, and kicked his own boots off next to Daryl’s. “Any reason we couldn’t use the front door?”

“No’ as much fun,” Daryl answered, turning around to smirk at his friend. “Watchin’ ya climb through’ tha’ window was worth it.”

“Dick,” Rick grumbled, which just made Daryl smirk wider. “So, what are we doin’?”

“Ya can leav’ if ya want,” Daryl snorted dismissively. “Not makin’ ya stay, just figur’d we had the priv’cy, still got lots’ta talk abou’.” He had crossed the room and was standing in front of Rick now. “Less ya go’ somewher’ else ta be.”

Rick shook his head of dark curls. “No,” he answered with a smile, there was nothing more important to him than having his best friend right there in front of him. He didn’t want to be anywhere else. “Ya got me as long as ya want me.” Daryl’s easy mask of playfulness that he had up moments before slipped away at his words, and his eyes roamed Rick’s face for a moment, and the look was so fucking open and _vulnerable_ that Rick’s breath caught in his throat. Did he really just falter at the words Rick thought he did? Was he really looking at the small smile that was slowly falling from Rick’s lips? _Was this fucking happening?_

“Yeah,” Daryl answered with a deep breath, after a few more moments of flickering his gaze between Rick’s blue eyes and Rick’s _fucking mouth_ , and then he started to pull away. But Rick’s hand shot out like a snake striking and grasped his forearm. The muscle was warm and firm and his tan skin so hardened from the elements it felt smooth, an energy like adrenaline practically emitted from his skin. It kept Daryl from moving anywhere, but Rick wasn’t sure he could take the step _right up_ into Daryl’s personal space. Wasn’t sure he could do anything really, because what if he was _wrong_ , or what if Daryl still wasn’t sure. Rick was sure, Rick was so fucking sure and in that moment all he wanted to do was pull the redneck close and press his mouth against Daryl’s. 

He wanted to kiss Daryl. He wanted to do it so badly, he felt like his chest was being shredded from the inside out from the turmoil and nerves and the adrenaline and the heartache and the _want_ and it was all too much.

God, what was he doing?

He said he wasn’t going to fuck this up, he wasn’t going to do anything that would push Daryl away. Just let go of his fucking arm, Rick, do it now! But Daryl was staring at him now, expectant and fearful at the same time. Afraid of what Rick was going to do. Fuck, he couldn’t just let go now, without running away and making everything worse. Was there a door number three? Where he could still sit with Daryl after and talk about what happened in Florida. Except that Rick didn’t care about Florida, not right now. 

Daryl licked his lips nervously, about to say something, but _fuck_ that was all Rick needed. As Daryl was distracted by whatever he was trying to piece together to say, Rick found the courage he needed and stepped right up into Daryl’s space. They were close to the same height now, Rick only an inch or two taller, and Rick just couldn’t look away. The wispy locks of dirty blonde hair fell across his eyes, pale blue and no longer squinting at him in the faint light, just clear and wide and reading _so many_ emotions. The candlelight seemed to soak into his skin, tan and warm, his hair glowing gold in messy untamable strands, and his mouth was still open like he was about to say something. It hit him so hard his head spun further, he was going to kiss him. He was going to kiss Daryl Dixon and _everything_ was about to change. But he wanted to kiss Daryl so bad, the pull in his chest _hurt_ from the force of it, and he knew the breath he let out made him sound as winded as he felt. Daryl might have said his name, but there wasn’t a force on Earth that could have made Rick pay attention to anything other than the sight of his best friend before him. 

Daryl’s body was like a furnace, the heat emitting from his skin and his chest as Rick shifted closer to Daryl’s face, distantly he knew he should close his mouth before he tried this, but his breath seemed to stutter in his chest and he didn’t know if he could _breathe_ , but Daryl was looking between his eyes and his mouth as he drifted closer with a look of fear and confusion and _longing_ and it pulled at Rick’s heart so much more that he was afraid it would burst from his ribcage. 

His nose was as warm as the rest of him, and Rick could hear, _feel_ , the sharp intake of breath as he brushed his nose against Daryl’s, moving his head to what felt like just the right angle, the intake of breath parting Daryl’s lips and Rick was taking those last few inches in an instant, his own chapped lips catching against Daryl’s. Not fully kissing him but dragging his lips against Daryl’s, catching his bottom lip between his own and pulling at them lightly. He could feel Daryl’s heartbeat like a humming bird desperately trying to escape his chest, could feel the tense muscles in his arms and torso, could practically hear the fight or flight response battling its way to the front of Daryl’s senses. But Rick was not going to let that happen, he wanted this, _Daryl_ wanted this, and he wanted to chase that taste on Daryl’s lips deep inside his mouth. His hand came up and threaded itself through the warm strands of dirty blonde hair, cupping his jaw and back of his neck and holding him there as he went back in for a real kiss only to find the other boy still hadn’t closed his mouth. Panting for breath, frozen in place, eyes tracing over Rick like he wasn’t sure this was even real.

Oh, it was real. A small bubble of laughter escaped from his chest in a huff from the sheer _happiness_ he felt that this was even working, that he wasn’t dead on the ground with Daryl’s hunting knife in his chest, he rested his forehead against Daryl’s and smiled so wide he was sure it was going to split his face in two.

He was going to _show_ Daryl how real it was.

He had just barely moved to brush his lips against Daryl’s _for real_ this time, when a loud and earth-shattering crash echoed from the front of the house, making the two boys jolt back. 

“DARYL!” Merle was _screaming_ for him, and there were mixes of someone else shrieking in pain, blood-curdling screams, crashes of furniture and crates being moved in the living room hastily and without a care as to where they were going. They were making room for something. “ _DARYL_! GET OU’ HERE _**NOW**_!!!!”

“ _ **DARYL!**_ ” And that was one of the twins, and he sounded close to sobbing. The sheer panic and fear that laced each word raced through them, and was so terrifying and sudden that they merely glanced at each other for a moment before Daryl was running out the door and down the hall. 

Rick was only frozen for a second, heart still beating rapidly from what almost happened and from what was happening now. And then he was racing after Daryl, without a second thought as to what horrors existed at the end of the hall. Nothing in the world could have stopped him from following Daryl Dixon.


	11. Raise Hell, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready? 
> 
> This monster of a next installment has been broken into two parts, possibly three depending on how carried away I get, because it is so LONG and so CRAZY and it's too much for my heart to take. Both from excitement and heartbreak. We have circled back to the horror genre part of this story for the next few chapters, so brace yourselves for that. I apologize in advance for what is about to happen.
> 
> And I must say, again, how wonderful all of you are, your comments you leave mean everything to me. You are all so perceptive and have the most wonderful things to say, and it really helps motivate me. I love you all, thank you so so so much. I'm continuously amazed at the response this story is receiving.
> 
> Alright, so I'm going to dive on in with warnings for the chapter: a lot of blood, agnozing pain and torture, panic inducing in its entirety (at least it was for me). And I will be changing some tags soon, adding a few that weren't there before, but I'm going to wait a few days because I'm dramatic like that. Also trigger warnings for child abuse. 
> 
> Also, if any of you aren't very familiar with basic hoodoo/voodou curses, one that is very popular is called being "crossed", and it gets to you through your feet. It is suposed to be a life-long curse, for however short you life is after you are crossed, but it typically takes months or years to kill you. It's a continuous string of curses and bad luck as the crossing travels up your body, until it reaches your heart and it kills you. It's where the phrase "cross my heart and hope to die" comes from.
> 
> And a huge MASSIVE shout out to The_Royal_Gourd for being my beta reader for this chapter, she did fantastic, thank you so much dear :)
> 
> I hope you all enjoy :3

The end of the hallway looked like it was miles away. It took every ounce of him to put one foot in front of the other, push himself to follow Daryl into the dark living room. Full of screams and crashes and panic and fear. But Rick did make it to the end, in reality he was only a few seconds behind his friend, but nothing could have prepared him for what he found.

“WE NEED FUCKIN’ LI’GHT!” Merle hollered, his silhouette almost completely blocking the doorway, and his booming voice bouncing off the tin walls. He had been clearing space, grabbing anything he could lift and physically chucking it out the door, onto the crowded porch or further to break and scatter across the gravel lot. 

Daryl had only stalled for a second to take in the scene, before dodging to the corner and grabbing a gas lantern, lighting it just in time for it to shine on Merle returning and dragging the same rickety card table Daryl had used for his ritual years ago. The man was smudged in dirt and rust red blood, staining his already dingy wife-beater and covering the lower parts of his arms. Once the table was standing Daryl set the lantern on the corner, the whole room cast into stark contrasts of items in the beams of bright light and others hidden in dark shadow, Merle whirled around and stalked over to the doorway. The twins were on the ground, one kneeling in front of the other, who was hadn’t stopped _screaming_ bloody murder from when they first entered the house. The one who was kneeling in front of his brother turned just in time for Merle to physically shove him out of the way, and Rick could only guess which one it was. But if he remembered correctly which one had leered at him in the back of Merle’s truck a year ago, the one who wasn’t hurt was Colby.

Merle got a hold of Ryan, lifting him up and heaving him onto the card table, which shook from the force of it. And Rick barely had time to think before he was _right there_ , catching that damn gas lantern before it fell off the table and burned the fucking house down. Unfortunately, the light cast over Ryan, and Rick got a good look at something he _never_ wanted to see.

Normally the twins were identical in every way, lean and long and skinny as all get out, the muscles in their arms and chest only appearing so starkly because they had next to no body fat on them. They had always been that way, their parents could never afford to feed them properly, and honestly couldn’t tell them apart half the time anyway. They had been meth dealers way back when, Merle had first found them years ago when he had started dabbling in the harder drugs. Merle was probably the most surprised when he went to a new dealer and ended up bringing home two new friends, as well as a free dime of pot and the meth he had gone for.

They both had dusty brown hair that fell in a disheveled mess half the time, but was most often seen buzzed short when Merle got a hold of them. Colby usually had a good amount of scruff going, around his mouth and covering his cheeks and chin. Ryan kept himself a little cleaner, except for a slight dusting of 5’oclock shadow that he kept for a day or two. They had their differences, of course, Ryan actually had the ability to smile, while Colby would attempt but it usually came off as a smirk or a leer. Colby was older by four minutes, and definitely treated Ryan like the little brother he was, always trying to one up him and take care of him, and was the more bold of the two. Though they were both pretty bold to begin with, never afraid to back down or say what was on their mind, and they didn’t pull any punches either. But Ryan was the only one who finished high school, and he usually ended up looking after his older brother more than Colby let on. They balanced each other, enabled each other, and were the worst and best thing they ever had in their lives. Besides Merle, who treated them like family from the get-go. So did Daryl, and so did Old Man Dixon, in their own respective ways in which they treated family members. 

However, Merle did selfishly keep them looking almost exactly the same, just in case the day came they needed that slight trick up their sleeve, for “business” or otherwise. They had the same thin face, same long limbs, same wide toothy grin, and same mud-brown eyes. 

But now, Ryan’s eyes were ringed with the color of rust. The whites turned to red, puffy and watering, tears filling and over-flowing them and streaming down his face as he endlessly _screamed_ in pain.

There were wounds on his chest, a few inches across each, that looked like they were festering beneath his shirt. The coarse fabric tacky with warm blood that was sticking to the article of clothing in clotted red splotches. And right before their eyes another one appeared, dissolving into view as Ryan let out another agonizing scream. 

“MAKE IT STOP!!!” Colby screamed to Daryl, having scrambled to his feet and returned to his brother’s side, letting the younger latch on to him, his brother’s nails digging so deep into the flesh in his arm and palm they were drawing blood.

“Hold ‘em down!” Daryl shouted, flicking open his switchblade again and barely giving Colby a chance to push on Ryan’s shoulders before he was slicing through the shirt fabric. Ryan’s chest was heaving, skin slicked with sweat and blood, and over a dozen open wounds leaking crimson like water gushing up through the breaks in a sidewalk. Daryl had yanked the rest of the shirt out from under him and balled it up pushing the whole thing down on Ryan’s chest. “Put press’re on it,” Daryl instructed, and Rick was right there, pushing down as hard as he could to try and stop the bleeding, despite the pained sobs Ryan cried out. Burying his face into his brother’s arm, teeth gritted tight, blood and spit dribbling down his chin to mix with the tears and sweat, and he couldn’t seem to stop crying. Colby was more holding on to him that holding him down, and though he made eye contact with Rick he might as well have been looking through him.

“Gonna need’a to’rniquet,” came the voice of Old Man Dixon, and the man himself was leaning against the wall in the hallway, watching and not doing a damn thing to help.

“Tie it off wit’ yer belt,” Merle told his brother as he kicked some more crates full of jars of shine onto the porch. Daryl just nodded and moved the lantern so he could see Ryan better, inspecting as much as he could in the dark room. Merle had already snagged his own lighter, lighting a few candles scattered across the miscellaneous furniture to help brighten the space, and positioning them closer to the card table to help aid Daryl’s efforts.

“Merle, need Nain’e’s box,” Daryl said as he slid his off his belt with shaking fingers, and Merle was out of the room in a second, already throwing things in his search through the kitchen. 

“Lift ‘em up,” Daryl motioned with a nod, and Rick and Colby did their best. But lifting Ryan those few inches off the table sent him into another bout of screaming pain, and revealed the literal pool of blood that was flooding the table. It was soaked into the back of Ryan’s clothes, and spilled over the sides of the card table, dripping in streams onto the floor. Daryl slid his belt under and around Ryan, trying to latch it just below his heart, but the material was too short. “MERLE,” Daryl hollered, “I NEED YER BELT!” He managed to yank the belt back out from under him just as Old Man Dixon slammed his belt buckle onto the table. Followed by _his_ belt. Both Colby and Daryl _visibly_ flinched at the action, and Rick couldn’t take his eyes off it, but Daryl recovered as fast as he could and used his Pa’s belt to make the tourniquet around Ryan’s chest. Cinching it so tight that Ryan whimpered and his breath escaped him in a pained wheeze. 

“Keep puttin’ press’re down,” Daryl told Rick under his breath, snagging a jar of moonshine and dumping it over his hands just as Merle rounded the corner with a old rusted lock box. He got it open and set it down on the couch before he started digging through it, tossing wide-curved needles and a bundle of black thread on the cushions, along with various bags and jars of herbs, bones, powders, and unlabeled liquids. 

“What’cha need,” Merle demanded, once he had most of it laying on the tattered piece of furniture. 

“Gotta get rid o’ the hex firs’, ligh’ up those banishin’ sticks, set’em up ev’rywhere,” Daryl answered, pulling back the now soaked shirt from Ryan’s chest, getting a good look at the wounds and seeming to count them by the way his eyes skittered around. “Need sachet powd’r, rue, wa’hou bark, rosemary, and them bless’d salts. And a mort’r. If’n he’s cross’d gotta scrub his feet clean.”

“Nev’r seen a crossin’ do this,” Old Man Dixon said, still standing to the side and watching the boys run around. Merle had fished out what Daryl needed, and stuck them all in a stone bowl before handing it off. He lit a few black incense sticks and soon the smoke was drifting upwards in soft white spider-web patterns around the room. 

“Me neith’r,” Daryl murmured. Pouring out bits of the herbs and powders into the bowl before grinding them up with giant grains of salt. “Dunno wha’ else it cou’ld be.”

“It’s like somethang’s stabbing him,” Rick said quietly, finding his voice and catching Daryl’s eyes. “Like a voodoo doll?”

“Ain’t no such thing as _voodoo dolls_ ,” Merle sneered from across the room, almost looking offended. “Wha’ are ya e’vn fuckin’ doin’ here?!” He shouted, glaring at his little brother and Rick in turn.

Rick scowled back at the man, his hands coated in blood with some smeared up his arms from having to reposition his hold as Ryan squirmed beneath him.“Right now I’m trying ta stop the bleeding.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Merle!” Daryl shouted at about the same time, his and Rick’s words mixing together but both loud enough that they were heard. “Ya don’ know nothin’! Ge’ the damn needles an’ star’ stichin’ him up! He ain’ gonna last much long’r.”

“The _fuck_ he ain’t!” Colby yelled at him just a few inches from Rick’s ear, the close proximity making him flinch. 

“I’m gonna hav’ta summon a damn spirit ta help keep ‘em alive, Colby!” Daryl shouted. “He’s loosin’ too much blood! But they ain’t gonna help if he’s fuckin’ curs’d! I don’ know fer sure wha’ this is!”

Ryan’s head snapped back and he arched off the table with an ear-piercing scream of pain, Rick had to near climb on the damn table to hold him down and keep his wounds covered. 

“DARYL DO SOMETHANG!” Rick screamed at his friend, who abandoned the bowl of herbs and snatched a bottle from Nain’aine’s box before _literally_ hauling himself up on the table and straddling Ryan’s waist. 

“HOLD ‘EM DOWN!” Merle and Rick and Ryan were all pinning him at Daryl’s shouted command. The two older men holding him down with strong hands and locked arms, and Rick near leaning over the table and using his folded forearms and body weight to not only hold the squirming redneck down but to keep pressure on the wounds as Daryl had instructed. Opening the bottle, while muttering something under his breath that _was not_ in English, Daryl started painting Ryan’s face with red oil in patterns and contouring lines, quickly, and with shaking hands. Ryan couldn’t stop _fucking crying_ , sobs and pleas and sometimes words that were faint remnants of “make it stop”, and all Rick wanted to do was look away but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Couldn’t distance himself from what was happening because him holding what little blood Ryan had left in his body could be the _only thing_ keeping Ryan alive. He had to be aware of what was going on just in case Daryl needed him to do something.

But he felt Ryan’s arm seize up beneath him, and he found his gaze snapping to where he was digging his nails into the plastic fabric of the card table. On his arm cuts were slowly forming, sharp precise lines like someone was slicing into him. And the cuts were forming _letters_.

“Look,” he said out loud, “his arm.” Suddenly Old Man Dixon was _much_ too close, reeking of sour whiskey and watching the letters form in bloody scratches across Ryan’s arms.

They spelled the name _Dixon_.

“How’re they doin’ tha’?” Merle ground out. “How are they doin’ any of this?” 

Daryl had only stopped chanting to look at Ryan’s arm, and Rick was able to catch his eyes again for just a moment. “Ya sure there’s no such thang as voodoo dolls?”

“Merle’s wrong,” Daryl answered. “There are, I jus’- no one up here knows how ta make ‘em. It wouldn’ make sense ta think – they’d hav’ ta have a _piece_ of ‘im. And it don’ work like in the movies, it’s diff’ren’ than tha’, they can’ _do this_. I-I don’ know if I can stop it,” he admitted, stumbling over his words and starting to panic, before seeming to shake himself out of it and turning back to Ryan, continuing what he was doing before. A constant string of chants in a language Rick couldn’t understand, holding onto Ryan’s face with gentle and red soaked hands, and not looking away again.

“Wha’ ya mean _I’m wrong_ ,” Merle seethed. “Ain’ nev’r seen a damn voodoo doll.”

“We did, in Florida,” Colby shot back. “In tha’ damn witch’s shop. She had ‘em everywhere.” 

“Those weren’ _voodoo dolls_ , they w’re ju-ju, _gris-gris_ made fer her fam’ly ya dumb prick,” Merle ground out. He had dumped some moonshine over his own hands and had settled on the other side of the table, making Rick shift a little so he could start stitching up the wounds one at a time. The curved needles were brass and looked like they had seen a lot of use, and the black thread was the same material that Nain’aine had used to stitch up Daryl’s snake bite during the ritual years ago.

It made Rick’s stomach churn at the memory, and helped him ignore the close proximity he had to _every person_ in the room. He was _really_ close to Merle’s face because he was leaning over the table, practically on top of Ryan, who was much too warm and shaking and jerking. Daryl was leaning over his head and shoulders to get to Ryan’s face, and Colby was just out of his peripheral still holding on to his brother. Then Old Man Dixon was at his back on Ryan’s other side, and he had started _grilling_ the injured man for answers. Clearly this was a message to Dixon.

“Do ya kno’ who did this?” Old Man Dixon growled out, but Ryan wasn’t comprehending. He was starting to convulse, shaking and twitching violently, whimpering with every movement and crying out as Merle tried to stitch up the wounds. His eyes had started to roll back in his head, and Daryl had to smack his face a few times, interrupting his chants with little pleas.

“Sta’y wit’ me, Ry,” Daryl called to him.

“Stop bein’ a pussy,” Merle said as he leaned over and slapped his face a little harder, making Ryan’s eyes snap back open and look a little more alert. “Stay awake an’ fight, boy!” Ryan nodded, his eyes glazing over, but hearing his friend and trying to lock his gaze with his brother. Colby hadn’t moved the entire time, standing over him, their hand’s still held tight and his arm locked with his own, Ryan had let go a few times in his convulsions but Colby just held on tighter when he did. 

“ _HEY_ ,” Dixon shouted, slamming his hand on the table and sending Ryan into another fit. “Ans’er me!” But Ryan was _inconsolable_ now, shaking and crying and reopening the few wounds that got stitched up, making Merle curse under his breath.

“Fuckin’ leav’ ‘im be til we ge’ him ta stop bleedin’!” Merle shouted right back at his Pa. 

“Then som’one tell me what the FUCK ya’ll w’re doin’ wh’n this happn’d! Wha’ did’ja do now, boy!”

“AIN’ DONE NOTHIN’ YET!” Merle shouted right back. “Didn’ even make it outta town! Soon as we hit the county line Ryan start’d screamin’.”

“Wha’ w’re ya plann’in’ on doin’ ya stupid piece’o-“

“WHAT YA FUCKIN’ CO’LDN’T! SOM’ONE HAD TO!”

They were about to come to blows, and Rick and Daryl and the twins were caught between them and not able to move, but before Dixon could scream back at his son, Ryan interrupted them.

The scream was agonizing, he arched so high off the table he moved Daryl with him, as if trying to get away from a searing-hot knife. Merle had had his hands on his chest, trying to stitch up another of the open wounds, and from the way his eyes snapped down and his mouth dropped open, whatever was happening was _not_ good.

“FUCK,” he shouted, and was scrambling to help Rick push down on his stomach, but underneath the blood-soaked shirt what use to be shock-rigid muscle and slick skin was now much too soft and had a little too much give. “No, no, NO!” Rick’s stomach dropped sickeningly, and he felt bile rising in his throat as he realized what he was helping hold in.

“Daryl get off,” Rick made himself say, but even opening his mouth made his words come out strained and he felt he might not be able to stop himself from throwing up. “Daryl get _off of him_.”

Daryl’s eyes shot wide, knowing and sickened with fear, and made to scramble off the table. But he didn’t make it far, had only moved his hand to Rick’s shoulder to use as leverage to push himself up and off of Ryan without injuring him further. But then Ryan started convulsing. Jerking violently in ways his body couldn’t handle, even with the other men holding him down and his wounds closed. His eyes rolled back in his head as he started choking on blood that bubbled up his throat and dribbled down his chin.

“ _No!_ ” Colby screamed. “No, no , _no_ , Ry’ c’mon,” he cried, bracketing his twin’s head with his arms, pressing his head against Ryan’s, cradling him in and holding on tight… as his little brother slipped away from him like water through his fingers.

There was only a beat of silence where Ryan didn’t draw breath again, didn’t tense against the pain, and the gaze that had been locked _so tight_ with his brother faded to nothing before Colby _screamed_. A hoarse, broken, painful yell that lasted until he was out of breath, agonizing and raw as he felt his brother ripped away from him. The sound made Rick finally look away, closing his eyes tight against the picture before him. 

Rick didn’t have any siblings, the closest he ever came to having brothers were Shane and Daryl. And he already experienced the pain of losing them, wondering if Daryl was dead or if he would ever come back to White Oak, the pain that tore through his chest when he learned of what Shane had done to Daryl and being convinced that his friend was dead to him. He had been crippled by that pain, unable to move or move on from it. It had consumed him for months when Daryl was missing, had brought him to his knees when he thought Shane was beyond his reach.

But he couldn’t even _imagine_ the magnitude of what Colby was feeling. To have someone so close to you be ripped away in such a short amount of time, and in such a brutal and gruesome way. The grief filled the room, resounded through it like ripples in a pond, becoming larger and affecting each of them as it grew more intense with each passing second. 

The heart-wrenching sound Colby made could’ve shattered the windows if they had still been intact. 

The way Merle’s blood coated fists curled tight and started to shake, because anger and rage were the only way he knew how to deal with so much emotion. It didn’t take long for it to fill him and burst at the seams, the man turning and kicking a wooden chair in the room so hard it splintered into pieces.

And then how Daryl’s eyes went dead, face slack and reading devastation. No doubt hearing the silent echoes of voices he had heard all his life, voicing his failure in stark memories of past and present. _Can’ do anythin’ righ’, boy. Fucking USELESS! He’s dead an’ ya coul’nt do SHIT! Didn’ ev’n know wha’ you were fuckin’ doin’! Ya migh’ as well hav’ kill’d him yerself! HE FUCKIN’ TRUST’D YOU! AN’ YOU FAIL’D HIM! HE’S DEAD CAUSE’A YOU!_

Rick slowly lifted himself off of where he had been pinning Ryan down, careful to not interfere with Colby’s grieving, and careful to move _exactly_ into Daryl’s line of sight to break him from the self-deprecating trance he had fallen into. He locked eyes with him in that moment, trying to say how sorry he was without saying anything aloud to make it worse, and then helped Daryl off the table without disturbing Ryan’s body. Daryl’s face kept screwing up, like he couldn’t swallow, breath hitching every now and then as he tried to breathe past the tears that blurred his eyes. Looking at the red oil and blood on his hands with a sickened and repulsive stare, and it was only then that Rick looked down at himself and realized how much blood he had on _him_. 

His hands were slicked with it, more apparent in the cracks and crevasses on his palms and fingers, as well as across his abdomen on his shirt. It streaked up his arms all the way to his elbows from the way he had been holding Ryan down, and it made his stomach lurch at the sight. And in that moment the unbearable _sadness_ hit him like a tidal wave that violently tore through him and pulled him under. Ryan was fucking _dead_ , he had been holding on to him too when he slipped away, he had only met him a few times personally but the twins had always been a constant entity throughout his childhood. Attached to Merle and each other at the hip, never seeing the three apart, and the fact that Daryl had grown up with them and mentioned them all the time through the years made it all feel so much more real. Ryan was gone, a piece of this tattered and tortured family broken off, and there was no way to fix it. 

“Bring ‘im back.”

The words cut through the room like a butcher knife, the grief and devastation so thick it was easy to do so, and it made every person look at Old Man Dixon. The mountain of a man had moved back to his former spot against the wall at the entrance to the hallway, and he had a glass jar of shine in his hand as if he had been toasting Ryan’s memory, but they all knew better. Rick had never gotten a good look at Old Man Dixon before, he looked a lot like Merle, had probably been a little handsome in that rugged way years and years ago. Muscle caked on top of muscle, over six feet tall, face looking like it went twelve rounds with Rocky back in the day but healed well enough, and a gut forming as he slowly drank himself into liver damage. 

But he was strong, ruthless, hateful, and cruel. He ruled his house and his business with an iron fist, had a sadistic streak a mile wide, and a sociopathic nature that intensified with alcohol and had no discrimination. Even against his own children. His power stemmed from fear and violence, and his methods had worked for his entire life. He would never change, for as long as Rick would know him.

Silence returned to the room, the Dixon brothers not looking away from their Pa, and even Colby lifting his head up and regarding him with fear and confusion. Old Man Dixon just took another swig from the jar, and when no one answered repeated himself, but looked right at his youngest.

“Bring ‘im back,” he said, calm and without a care as to the magnitude of his question, as if he was asking Daryl to change the TV channel.

And Rick had _never_ seen Daryl with such a look of _horror_ on his face before. 

“What?” he breathed more than asked, looking incredulous and shocked and borderline ill. Because he had heard his Pa, but he didn’t want to believe it. 

“Ya fuckin’ deaf? Bring. Him. Back.” Old Man Dixon spit out angrily, and each word looked like it was stabbing something inside of Daryl, and driving something home to both Merle and Colby. “Need ta kno’ who did this, now tha’ he’s dead he’ll kno’.” A horrifying and revolting thought shot through Rick at the statement, did Will Dixon _let_ Ryan die? The man had barely lifted a finger to help the others try to save his life. Once Ryan had been unable to answer as to who cursed him, did he rationalize that once the young man had died he would somehow know, so he just _let it happen?_ “Oth’r sid’ always has all the answ’rs,” Old Man Dixon said with a smirk around the lid of the glass jar as he casually took another swig.

“I-I _can’t_!” 

Colby tentatively let go of his little brother like it _pained_ him to do so, but he wanted to go to Daryl. Shake some sense into him, beat it in if he had to. When he spoke, his voice was cracked and raw from screaming. “The hell you can’t.” 

“Tha’s wha’ voodou is all abou’, boy,” Will Dixon snapped at the same time Colby shouted at his son. “Raisin’ the dead, talkin’ wit ‘em.” Merle hadn’t even said anything until he had stalked over, grabbing Daryl by both arms, and hauling him in close until he was glaring right into his pale blue eyes.

“Yes you can,” he ground out, threatening and without argument.

“Le’ go’a me!” Daryl shouted in his face and made to tear himself away but Merle held on so tight he was leaving bruises. 

“I _know_ ya can!” Melre shouted back like he hadn’t heard him, blinded by grief and this _terrible_ thing masquerading as hope. “I know Nain’ tol’ ya abou’ all the old spells-“

“As a fuckin’ _WARNING_ MERLE,” Daryl spat at his brother. “We ain’t never s’possed ta-“

“I DON’ CARE!” Merle was _screaming_ at him now, and Daryl was screaming right back until he couldn’t anymore. Because Merle was shaking the absolute _life_ out of Daryl as if that would make him change his mind. Strong arms jerking him back and forth violently until Daryl couldn’t protest back. Both Colby and Rick had tried to interfere, Rick to pry him off and Colby to take his own turn, but both had gotten jabbed out of the way with Merle’s elbow and shoulder, and Rick had been knocked to the ground from the force.

“HE’S DEAD, MERLE!” Daryl screamed when he could. “I CAN’T BRING ‘IM BACK! It ain’t RIGHT! What’s dead sho’ld _stay_ dead an’ you KNOW that!”

“Don’ giv’ a fuck wha’s _right_ ,” Merle seethed. “You don’ and I swear ta _God_ I’ll-“

“You’ll wha’? Ge’ me killed too!?” Daryl shouted angrily with a narrowed glare and venomous tone. Merle looked like Daryl had punched him in the face, and it only seemed to fuel his rage. But he didn’t even get to reply, because Old Man Dixon had had enough of his sons’ screaming match and took matters into his own hands. 

It happened in a flash, but one second they were all upright and the next Merle was on the floor with a bloody nose and bloody teeth and Will Dixon had Daryl by the hair, fisted tight and hauling him away from his brother’s grief-driven rage into his own little circle of wrath. Distantly, Rick wondered if Merle had always buzzed all their hair short for this very reason, before he was scrambling to his feet. To what end he wasn’t sure, but the nausea that filled him at the sight of what he had feared for years almost paralyzed him. What was never spoken about but was always there, what had been talked about in clinical detail in countless seminars and health classes through the years and always made Rick sickened to the point he couldn’t focus, and _always_ made him think of Daryl. The term becoming a taboo in his own head as well as in all of White Oak, never mentioned even though everyone _knew_ , Rick _knew_ , and pretending there wasn’t a word for it wasn’t about to make what was happening go away. Seeing the abuse so stark and real in front of him brought every bruise and scratch and scar he had ever seen to the forefront of his mind in a blinding rush. And that is what it was: abuse. Long term, _child_ abuse. There was no other name for it, nothing else to call it but what it was, no way to hide what had been happening daily for years. Not anymore, not for Rick.

“Now ya lis’en here, boy,” his Pa growled out, close to his ear and through clenched teeth, ceasing Daryl’s struggles as he tried to squirm his way out of his Pa’s grasp. Rick was up and almost to them, having no plan as to _how_ to get Daryl away from his Pa, but he was going to fucking _try_. Until a sharp prick to his chest stopped him dead in his tracks, and his blue eyes zeroed in on the hunting knife Old Man Dixon had out and pointed at his chest to keep him at arm’s length. “Yer gonna do the damn rit’ual, or I’m gonna drain you _and_ yer damn girlfri’nd here dry ta appe’se the Lwa an’ hav’ _them_ take care’o this. In wha’ev’r way they see fit. They _will_ tear a hole the siz’ a Georgia ‘n the world searchin’ fer the damn witch tha’ did this, and burn th’s fuckin’ town to the _ground_ on their way. So yer gonna _do as I fuckin’ say-_ “

“Pa,” Merle ground out, interrupting his Old Man’s monologue, trying to ignore the pained hitches that escaped Daryl as he bit his tongue against the sharp burning strain when their Pa tightened his hold and twisted his head with the grip of his hand. The way he had him made his head tilt away from his Pa, but put his ear closer to his mouth, it wrenched his neck and made him hunker down in the most _vulnerable_ position. There was no way Daryl could get purchase or use any of his bodily strength to get away. And with Rick, right there, a thirteen inch hunting knife pointed directly at his chest, Daryl wasn’t going to even try. 

So Rick was going to have to do it for him.

“Let him go,” Rick forced out, not looking at the hunting knife. His hands were sticky with dried blood and curled into fists at his sides to keep them from shaking, and he held his head up no matter how much he wanted to look away. But _never_ , not the shadow people chasing him through the forest, not the ghost in his grandparent’s house, or the fight with the baseball team, had he _ever_ been so scared for his life – as when Old Man Dixon leveled his gaze at him. Those other things he had feared because there was always an unknown element to the extent of damage. How far would it go? Would it kill him? Could it do worse? But Rick _knew_ what Old Man Dixon could do, what he _had done_ to his own flesh and blood, how far he would go. He didn’t even _know_ Rick, so when the words came out of his mouth he couldn’t believe just _how stupid_ he really was. 

The pure malice and the sociopathic glare that was sent his way terrified him more than anything, he could _feel_ the violence radiating from the older man, what he wanted to do if he didn’t have his hands full with his son. Rick would have nightmares about those dead eyes for years, because he had spoken like that to Will _fucking_ Dixon. Who made people who weren’t his own children tremble in terror, who had Daryl hunkered down and looking like he was ten years old again, who had thrown Merle to the ground like he was a rag doll. God, the only person he had ever heard speak to him like that _was_ Merle, who was only alive after that because they were related by blood and the man was made out of 200 pounds of muscle. 

If Will Dixon didn’t already have ten other things that he was dealing with that night, Rick would be dead on the ground with the hunting knife sticking out of his chest.

But Rick _knew_ this, was counting on it really. On the fact that they needed Daryl, knew he was important to his son, so Old Man Dixon wouldn’t hurt him.

Much.

Fuck, he was so stupid.

“Let him go,” Rick said again, but with a little less force this time, because _fuck_ was he scared. But he didn’t look away from the older man. He thought Daryl had mastered not showing any emotion, Old Man Dixon was like a fucking slab of rock, he could be annoyed or angry or homicidal or fucking impressed with Rick and he would never even know it. 

“Shut _up_ , Rick,” Daryl pleaded, the other boy had had his hands up where his Old Man had him by the hair, originally trying to pry him off but left them there to hold onto his hair too to alleviate the pain. Now he tapped his father’s forearm like he was tapping out of a wrestling match. “Le’ go, I’ll do it.” His Pa released him and Daryl ducked out of his reach in a second, pushing Rick with him until they were a good ten feet away and Daryl was between Rick and his Pa.

“He’s gotta a fuckin’ smart mouth on ‘im,” Old Man Dixon finally said, re-sheathing his knife but not budging other than that.

“I know, he’s an idiot,” Daryl muttered, glaring at Rick, who kept his gaze level on his friend. He was _not sorry_ and Daryl was going to have to deal with that. Daryl turned back to the three men, who were watching him expectantly, and the gravity of what was happening seemed to be seeping into Daryl’s shoulders.

“Need ta go to Nain’s,” Daryl said quietly, “gotta get ev’rythin’ fer the rit’ual. Don’ know wha’ I need. Ge’ him to the clearin’,” he nodded towards Ryan’s still body on the card table. “I’ll meet ya there.”

They all understood, but no one moved. Colby kept looking like he wanted to say something to Daryl, and Rick could only hazard a guess – it wasn’t blame. More like he wanted to say thank you, and he probably would when Ryan was breathing again. But Daryl didn’t want to hear it.

“He won’ be the same,” Daryl told him gravely. “It migh’ not even work. But if’n it does, he won’ be Ryan anymore.”

“I don’t care,” Colby answered.

\--

“ _You_ ,” Daryl seethed, pushing Rick roughly against the side of the house as they rounded the corner, aiming for Merle’s rusted pick up. “are the bigg’st fuckin’ _idiot_ I’ve ev’r met!” He had him pinned harshly, leaned in close so no one else around could hear them, and if Rick didn’t know better he might of thought Daryl was going to try and kiss him. But Daryl looked angry, and tense, and _scared_. “My Pa was gonna _kill you_!”

“Dar-“

“ _No_ , you don’ und’rstan’ Rick, he was gonna _kill_ you,” and Daryl seemed so sure of this. It was a fact to him, and Rick always took Daryl by his word. But he didn’t need his friend to tell him how close he had come to death in there. “Wha’ wer’ ya thinkin’!”

“I had to,” Rick answered, and it was a poor answer he knew, but it had all the meaning in the world behind it, and it made Daryl freeze.

“Ya _had to_ ,” he repeated, the answer making him more angry, but when he saw how Rick wasn’t looking away from him, he seemed to understand what Rick meant. “No,” he said shortly, shaking his head. “Ya didn’. Ya _shouldn’_ hav’.” And that hurt a little bit. “Ya don’ know my Pa, he won’ forget this. Ya shoul’da lef’ b’fore they ev’n go’ home, or turn’d tail an’ ran when they did-“

“You _really_ think I’d do that?” Rick almost spat, insulted and more than a little hurt now. “That I’d really just _leave_ ya there?”

“Didn’ say ya’d want to,” Daryl answered, quieter this time, knowing he stepped over a line. “Jus’ that ya should’ve.”

“Should’ve done a lot of thangs,” Rick said back.

Daryl’s eyes softened at that, searching and bright in the darkness as they bore into Rick’s. “God, yer stupid,” he muttered, and it sounded so soft and so sad and so fond that it turned from an insult to a declaration. In a perfect world, this would have been the part where he leaned in and kissed Rick. Careful and unpracticed, needed after their harsh brush with death. He looked like he wanted to, and it would have fit, would have been perfect in that moment. 

But just like most everything in his life, Daryl denied himself that moment. 

“Go home, Rick.” 

The laugh that escaped him was unexpected. Rick couldn’t even tell you where it came from. The incredulousness of the statement just seemed so absurd. Leave? Right now? Daryl looked more shocked than anything at the huff of laughter that Rick let out.

“No,” Rick answered, the barest hints of a smile twitching at this lips.

“ _Rick_ ,” Daryl started, but Rick cut him off. He wasn’t going to let him have this.

“No,” Rick insisted. “I’m not leaving, ‘cept ta wherever yer going now.”

“Yer not goin’,” Daryl growled, narrowing his pale blue eyes at Rick.

“Yes I am,” it must have been the exhaustion, the stress of everything that had happened that was making Rick find this situation so _fucking funny_. “Daryl Dixon,” he finally started, trying to be serious but the small smile now on his face lessened some of the severity. “I am _not_ leaving you, so deal with that however ya need to, and let’s get going.” He nodded towards the truck, and side-stepped out of Daryl’s grasp. Which had slackened considerably after he had basically laughed in his face. Daryl was giving him a different variation of the look he had been sending his way the entire time they had known each other, this time it was more incredulousness than fondness, more hope than loyalty, like he couldn’t believe he was real. Like he couldn’t believe he was here. And that he was crazy, for sure, and likely to get himself killed, but he knew he couldn’t stop him.

“I hate you sometimes,” Daryl muttered disbelievingly.

“I know,” Rick answered, and this time he didn’t fight the bright smile that crossed his face, no matter how insane it made him look. And after all the death and threats and fear from that night, he could see the affect a simple smile had on Daryl as he deflated in Rick’s presence. 

Rick would never think so highly of himself to recognize that it was the fact that _he_ was smiling that made Daryl forget, for just a moment, what he was about to do.

And how “I hate you” sounded an awful lot like “I love you”. 

The boys climbed into the truck, Daryl having to soothe it into starting, and it sputtered and fought the whole way into idle. He turned with one hand behind Rick’s head rest and backed all the way out of the lot and up the hill. 

Rick faintly remembered Daryl saying earlier that night that Nain’aine lived about twenty minutes away from town. He also remembered his Mom saying he wasn’t supposed to stay out too late. 

He hoped he’d be alive in the morning to apologize in person.


	12. Raise Hell, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less than two weeks, that's right you saw that correctly. If I had a mic to drop I would, I powered through this entire chapter in like two days, it just kept _flowing_ , and so is the next one I might add. You can't see my happy dance, but I'm doing a damn happy dance. 
> 
> OMG the feels this chapter, I didn't expect all the feels, I have so much more HORROR to write but it's all going to be in Part III of this craziness, for now enjoy having your heart ripped out.
> 
> The only warnings I have are continuously bad language, dumb boys full of horomones and short tempers, and for the utmost amout of feels I have written to date - and I am so, so sorry. It's a downward slide from here, too, but it will be a happy ending when we get there (eventually). I 'm at about the half-way mark for this story. 
> 
> And another HUGE amount of thanks to The_Royal_Gourd for being my beta, she has the best eye and I think we should thank her for my quicker update :) I just have so much more motivation lately now I have someone to bounce ideas off of besides my cat and my husband.
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

The silence had been comfortable at first, the radio softly playing something neither boy could focus on or really hear over the loud grumble of the old Ford pick up truck. It bumped and jolted in constant time over the coarse gravel as Daryl drove through the dark back-roads, the headlights cutting through the pitch blackness like a hot knife. It looked peaceful outside, dark but full of life, filled with the chorus of cicadas and birds and the constant brush of leaves against leaves as the wind tousled the treetops. It mixed comfortingly with the roaring grumble and hum of the engine, the sound of gravel crushing beneath the heavy wheels, and bits of rock flying up and clinking against the underbelly of the truck. The window whistled as wind rushed by them from the speed they flew down the roads. It was a pleasant reminder that they had left all that death behind them in White Oak, until Rick remembered that they were about to attempt to bring that death back to the land of the living. Then the peacefulness seemed a façade, the metaphorical wool that the world had pulled over their eyes, disguising what evils and secrets lay within the swamp, and it left a bad taste in Rick’s mouth.

He wasn’t sure how the ritual was going to work, what it was going to accomplish. Could it really bring a person back to life, repair them and make them whole once more? It felt so _unnatural_ , so wrong, it made worry churn in his stomach and fear fester in his chest. He was learning to deal with fear in different ways now that he was growing older, had learned methods and reasoning behind where fear stemmed when he was in the academy earlier that summer. Fear stemmed from situations that were beyond his control, things that were more powerful or had more of an advantage. Rick had learned during drills where there was an active shooter or a hostage that fear was merely a sign that something was beyond him, and he needed to stop and think, observe and problem-solve. Find the solution, gain the upper hand, and finally take control. Then he wins, and the fear is gone. 

With the ritual, Daryl was the expert here, Rick would look to him to know how everything works. What was right or wrong, cause and effect, what was deadly and what was doable. And he had said from the beginning that this was something he shouldn’t do, would not do, had to be forced to do. Rick could still feel the scratch beneath his shirt where the hunting knife had been pointed at his chest, he had run right into it. It should scare him that Rick was willing to go head first into definite harm, willing to die for his friend, but instead it brought him a sense of peace. He knew his limits, and that was an advantage. As was having Daryl by his side. Even though what was about to happen was something that caused the redneck to stare at his Pa in horror, scream at his brother, fight tooth and nail against them – to make them understand this was something he cannot do. _What’s dead should stay dead!_ The words repeated in his head like a dreadful chant, a constant reminder that what they were about to do would curse them for the rest of their lives. 

_You’ll be cursed! Then I can’t help ya, no one will._

It felt a little like going to their deaths. 

Rick cut a glance at Daryl, the smallest traces of light highlighted the planes of his face, glinting in his eyes as he narrowly peered into the darkness. He didn’t have any stark emotion on his face, as was usual when he had set about a task, but the resignation was clear – acceptance in a way that also mirrored death. Like he had expected it all his life, that he would be turning down this path, that he never really had a choice after all. 

He too would be betraying the Lwa, just like his Pa.

Rick turned back to the road in front of them before he broke the silence. “What we’re about to do, puts us in a bad way with the Lwa,” Daryl nodded, as he continued, “it’s _wrong_ , but is it dangerous?” he was all cautious precision now, carefully speculating and examining what was about to happen. Dangerous to them didn’t mean the eternal damnation that will come with being cursed, that was a dead give-away, Rick already knew that; dangerous meant harmful to them physically, it meant more blood, a chance they wouldn’t walk out of that clearing. Rick was oddly accepting of that outcome, he just needed to prepare himself for it. The change must have reflected in his tone, the seriousness and fortitude he now felt. Purpose as he’d never felt before, he insisted on coming along, so he was going to help. Daryl looked at him for a moment, quickly, regarding him as if he was checking that the tone would match the look on his face. And he must have liked what he saw, because the tension escaped him with an exhale, and strength took its place. They were in this together. 

“Yes,” he answered truthfully after he looked back to the road as well. “Men ar’n’t meant’ta come back, the oth’r side tears ‘em up, builds ‘em inta somethin’ new. Ya can’t jus’ put ‘em back in a body an’ send ‘em on their way.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think it’d be that easy.”

“Furth’st thing fr’m easy,” Daryl muttered, turning the trembling steering wheel so the truck skirted the edge of a small lit up town with four streets and a few small buildings. It was the only sign of civilization that had crossed the path of their headlights the entire ride through the woods. It was only there for a split second, and then they were surrounded by swamp again on either side of the road. “Dunno if it’s ev’n pos’ible, ta be honest,” he admitted, one hand on the steering wheel and the other in his mouth biting around his thumbnail nervously. The action made him slump against the driver side door, the arm connected to the hand in his mouth supporting his weight on the open window.

“Then why did ya tell your Pa and Merle that you’d do it?”

“Cause they _belie’ve_ it’s pos’ible,” Daryl said around his thumb, before sighing deeply and letting it drop from his mouth. “B’lief is a pow’rful thing. It can be strong’r than reality, ‘specially if yer stubb’rn enough ta push it tha’ far.”

Rick let that sink in, both Daryl’s words and his exasperation at the revelation. “Sounds like it happens a lot.”

“Yeah, well it shouldn’.” 

Turning to look at the other boy again in the faint glow of the headlights against the trees, he took in the frustrated and angry glint that had replaced the defeated look in his friend’s eyes. There was a determination there, a fortitude against the storm that he was ready to weather. Rick wondered if Daryl knew he had that in him, if he knew just how prevailing that endurance was, potential that was meant for something beyond his family. Surging through his veins and thrumming beneath his skin, invisible to anyone who didn’t know him, didn’t know the difference between who he was and who he _could be_.

“So what are ya gonna do about it?”

Daryl shot him a questioning look, confusion and shock in his glance, and he had physically turned his head to do so. The inquiry seemed beyond him, as if Rick’s question was absurd in some way. But all Rick did was return his gaze with a steady and serious stare, indicating it was a legitimate question and he _was_ waiting for an answer. And that gave Daryl pause.

He looked back to the road, and worried his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing the flesh while getting lost in thought. He was actually considering it, deeming it an action he could actually take. Daryl had been under his Pa’s thumb for so long, squirming and unable to save himself, that the fact that all it took was a little push to keep him fighting showed the strength he really possessed. Rick couldn’t help the elation and prideful satisfaction that filled up his chest, anticipation and down-right fucking admiration for the man beside him that left him feeling a little too smug. He could see the potential in Daryl, could see what he could become, and God _damn_ he couldn’t wait to see it.

“Not sure yet,” Daryl finally said after a moment, all low gravely tones and deep Southern drawl. He cut another glance at Rick, and Rick knew he was practically _leering_ at the other boy, before letting a small smirk crawl up his face at the intense, burning look in Rick’s blue eyes. He shifted back so he wasn’t leaning against the door anymore, the action making him lift his head a little higher, rolling his shoulders to release the tension between his shoulder blades, and the corded muscles in his arms rippled beneath his tan skin as he got a better grip on the steering wheel. All sharp white teeth behind a secretive smile that wasn’t _really_ a smile, more like a suggestion of snark and coy, pale blue eyes practically glowing in the faint traces of the headlights, and an air of arrogance appearing that reflected more confidence than self-importance. The whole thing looked so fucking _attractive_ on Daryl that it set fire to the blood in Rick’s veins, the flames licking across his skin in rushes of adrenaline and lust. If he hadn’t been so struck by the sight and busy being burned alive by his own emotions he would’ve recognized the redneck was _flirting_ with him. “I’ll let’cha know wh’n I find out.” 

_Fuck._

Rick was going to eat Daryl Dixon alive.

\--

Nain’aine’s real name was Lucille Isaacs, and her younger sister by five years – Marcia – didn’t really live within any city limits. Their family had been traditional backwoods natives, raised to live off the land and able to make almost anything that they may have needed. Going into town had been a monthly excursion, because it was so far away, and back then they didn’t actually own any automobiles to make the trip a little faster. So Rick shouldn’t have been surprised by how far they had to drive through the dark after passing the small town that sat on the edge of the forest. The Isaacs family had been doing it for years, both before and after they came into possession of a car in the early 1920’s, so they knew the distance to everywhere in Sothern Georgia. The trip from their small house deep in the woods to the Dixon house was _exactly_ 20 minutes, just as Daryl had told him.

After a while Daryl had turned off of the gravel road, more well paved than White Oak’s back roads, and pulled onto a winding dirt drive that weaved its way through the swamp. The pick-up just barely fit along the one lane dirt road, branches and leaves brushed against the sides of the rusted machine as it barreled its way down the path. After a few minutes they made their last turn around a grove of trees and an old white farm house came into view, all lit up with soft yellow light.

“Merle mus’ta call’d,” Daryl explained, and pulled into the lot in front of the house. The exterior light was from an old spot light covered in a thin layer of film from years of use, causing a faint glow to hang in the air around the house, much like a giant lantern. The house itself must have been as old as the Dixon house, but was much better kept. Weathered and with peeling bits of white paint texturing the walls, but layered to show repetitive attempts to maintain its appearance. The tin roof a little rusted from the Georgia humidity, but with patches of newer metal set on top to make a shiny patch-work pattern. All the windows were intact, and so was the mesh in the window frames and on the screen door. And plants and vines traveled up the sides, taking residence in the rotting wooden frame, but supporting it more than increasing its deterioration. It was old, and well-lived, but still well cared for. It looked like people actually _lived_ there, instead of just surviving like at the Dixon house.

The boys got out of the truck, and even the doors slamming seemed to be muted in sound. Soft hums of cicadas and sharp, high-pitched crickets could be heard from the surrounding swamp and tall grass, but muffled like the faint light was a sanctuary where everything was softer and nothing could penetrate it. The whole scene looked so peaceful, so serene, as if a spell had been cast over the house. For all Rick knew there _was_ , the whole place looked ethereal and almost _too_ picturesque. It felt a little like something out of a dream, a sense of familiarity about it though Rick had never been there before. It calmed him and chilled him at the same time, and after the rollercoaster of emotions he had been through that night he didn’t know what to make of the place. 

Daryl walked on up to the house with an air of ease and comfort Rick hadn’t seen in a while, climbing the steps in twos with light footsteps that barely made a sound, and stopped at the threshold to rap his knuckles on the frame of the screen door. A figure could be seen shuffling towards the door from deep within the house, the black screen mesh distorting view of her until she had reached the threshold. She was a shorter woman, Naine’aine’s sister, with thin, wispy white hair and distant eyes, but she got around a lot easier than her older sister. When she opened the door, the look of clear pity and thinly veiled disgust rested heavily in her pale eyes, and every inch of what they were about to do came rushing back to the two boys. Daryl looked more resigned and ashamed than Rick had ever seen him, or at least in a long time. And Rick could feel something awful and heavy start to settle in his stomach.

She stepped aside to let Daryl in, but in doing so caught sight of Rick as if she hadn’t noticed him before. Rick knew he looked out of place next to Daryl; his clothes weren’t Earth toned or shredded, though they both smelled of fresh dryer sheets from his house earlier and had blood stains as well, hair recently cut, shoes still intact instead of splitting at the seams. Every inch the indoor, pampered house cat to Daryl’s feral, outdoor one. “Who’s this?” she asked, voice soft and strained from both age and fatigue, overtly curious and only lightly suspicious because of the hour.

The redneck actually paused, faltered and stumbled as if looking for an answer, making Rick look at him as well. 

“This is Rick.” He tried to go for nonchalant, but the flicker of realization that crossed the old woman’s face told an _entirely_ different story that Rick wasn’t party to.

“ _Daryl_ ,” she practically breathed in disdain, slow and shocked. “Yer Daddy is gonna kill you-“

“Not tonigh’ he ain’t, wher’s Nain’e?”

A beat of heavy silence passed before she answered, “In the back.”

“I can wait outside,” Rick said lowly, leaning towards Daryl to speak the words so just the redneck would hear them. He didn’t know what the problem was, what he had done to strain the situation, but they needed to get what they came for and then get back to White Oak. 

“No,” Daryl said back just as lowly, turning his head just a tiny bit towards him and cutting a glance at him from beneath his bangs. “Migh’ need ya ta carry som’ stuff, don’ kno’ how much we need’ta bring back.” Rick looked back over to Marcia Isaacs with a wary stare, like she might object, or spit on him as he passed by, because she was looking _right back at him_ with this near _withering_ stare. As if watching a wasp drift dangerously close to a baby, a look bred from maternal instinct and years of experience, both growing up in isolation and in the Deep South. Rick wasn’t sure if she was wary of him because he looked so out of place, clearly not belonging, or because of what he meant to Daryl, causing a sickening question of how much she could see. How much did Rick and Daryl’s affection show to any one that observed them? Rick didn’t think it was _obvious_ or anything, they hadn’t actually _done_ anything yet! They had always been attached at the hip growing up, as long as Rick had called Daryl his friend, and no one else had ever looked at him like that.

Everyone else in White Oak had always directed their glares at Daryl.

For being a Dixon. For standing in such close proximity to someone who didn’t live on the back roads. It was a different breed of discrimination, one that focused more on social status and typecasting, labels and reputations that belong to a name instead of a single person. A person who had still been too young to even _have_ a reputation, let alone one so menacing and vile as the one labeled to the name ‘Dixon’. A pariah from the day he was born, Daryl lived through so much hate because of who he was and what he looked like – Rick could last fifteen minutes under the hateful scrutiny of this woman.

He owed Daryl that at the very least.

She let them pass and Daryl led the way through the small farm house. Rick could see the similarities between this house and Nain’aine’s old house that the Dixon’s now inhabited. It was as if they had stepped into the same house back in White Oak, into the same living room that Ryan had died in not an hour ago, but a few decades into the past. The room was adorned with the same hand-crafted furniture, looms and beaded creations that had some form of spiritual meaning hung from the walls in between various weapons that looked a century old. It was eerie how alike they were, parallel layouts in alternate universes, and Rick couldn’t help but look around curiously as they passed through the room and down the darkened hallway. 

Nain’aine was seated in a bedroom towards the back of the house, in a large cushioned chair buried beneath a blanket that she was stitching patterns into. The lines and colors looked almost _exactly_ like the patterns that adorned the _gris-gris_ under Rick’s shirt, and the familiarity of the embroidery made something warm and comforting blossom in his chest. She looked so much _older_ than the last time Rick had seen her, a few short years taking a lifetime out of the frail woman with shaking hands and milky pale eyes. The white film a new development Rick wasn’t expecting.

How was she stitching so perfectly? Rick was awe-struck at the sight as the two approached the old woman.

“Nain’e?” Daryl murmured gruffly, walking up to her and crouching down beside her chair. A sweet and loving smile blossomed across her face, laugh lines became more apparent and creases smoothed in happiness at the sound of the redneck’s voice. It lit up the dim room, lightening their heavy spirits just a fraction.

“Daryl,” she said back quietly, adoringly, dropping her stitching and reaching out for the boy’s hands. “It’s been too long.”

“Jus’ a coupl’a weeks,” Daryl told her gently.

“Has it? Time’s been goin’ so slow lat’ly, feels like years.” Her fragile hands had traveled up Daryl’s bare arms to his neck and trace over his face, and though Daryl still flinched at being touched so abruptly, he didn’t move an inch. “Yer growin’ so fast. Already a man.”

“Nain’e, we need yer help-“

“-Who’s wi’cha?” she interrupted, so slowly that Rick wondered if she had heard Daryl say ‘we’ or if she just somehow _knew_ it wasn’t just her and Daryl in the room. “Com’ere.” She beckoned before the redneck could answer her.

Rick was moving before he really even registered it, kneeling down beside Daryl until he was within reach of the older woman. Her hands were soft and cool, immediately tracing the planes of his face and the curve of his jaw, as if reading lines of brail engraved into his skin. Her fingers ghosted over his nose and full lips, across his brow and eye lids, causing him to close his eyes at the gentle touch, continuing up to brush through his dark curls before sliding down the sides of his head and over his ears until she was holding onto his face. She hummed in recognition, especially after running her hands over his curls, making Rick open his clear blue eyes only to find a pair of pale and milky green staring right back at him. A faded jade color that reflected in the faint light of the room, appearing as if they saw everything both _inside_ and out, his soul as well as his features, but obviously physically seeing nothing at all. But the knowing smile that teased her lips to the side gave away everything her eyes could not. “You’re Rick, aren’t you?”

A little speechless for a moment, realizing she would only know his name if Daryl had told her it before, he nodded his head and said a quiet “Yes ma’am.” The politeness tickled her, making her smile wider and let out a soft mixture of a giggle and an endearing coo that made her sound so much younger. She also smoothed down the bits of unruly curls on one side of his head much like his Mother usually did. 

“I knew Daryl would bring ya here one day,” she sighed happily. “He’s spoken of you a few times.” 

Rick smiled a bit at that, and Nain’aine’s finger’s splayed over his cheeks so she could feel the action. “Just a few?”

“For him tha’s a lot,” Nain’e laughed. “ _Means_ a lot.” She traced her fingers down his face until they reached his jaw again. “I’m glad he has you-“

“Nain’e,” Daryl interrupted, and when Rick looked over at him his cheeks had gone red beneath his tan, almost unmistakable in the dim light of the room. “We need your help.” It was a reminder that this wasn’t a pleasant visit, that it was late at night and unspeakable things were waiting to be done, unspeakable things that could never be _undone_. The smile slid from her face as if the situation had just dawned on her, and she patted the side of Rick’s face softly before letting go. Oddly, Rick missed the touch, her cold fingers having turned warm under his heated skin.

“Ya shoul’n’t do this, Daryl,” she warned him. “It can’ be undone, once it’s out there ya can’take it back.”

“I know,” Daryl sighed, finality and resignation. “Pa wants it done.”

The old woman nodded despairingly, pained acceptance weighing heavily on her tired features. “That man will be the death of you.”

“No he won’t,” Rick spoke up, sudden and defiant and protective. Like hell he would be. “I won’t let’em.” Daryl was looking at him now, unreadable and emotional at the same time. Disbelief and severity and affection all at once, maybe even love – if he dared to label the emotion fluttering across Daryl’s intense stare. 

Nain’aine smiled, genuine and small and sad, with a glimmer of hope. “I know ya won’t,” she told him, and grasped both their hands, squeezing them as much as her fragile strength would allow. “You two have such an _energy_ , you’re connect’d, an’ I know ya feel it ‘n yer bones. Don’ let go’a tha’. No matt’r what.” Daryl nodded firmly, but didn’t speak a word. But Rick couldn’t _not_ say something, couldn’t let it go with just a nod, not with the best form of a blessing he was likely to receive from someone Daryl considered family. 

“Yes, ma’am.” And it sounded like a promise.

The room was filled with bookshelves, books older than Rick and Daryl’s ages combined, older than Rick’s grandmother probably. They were stacked and shelved haphazardly, squeezed into the small confines of the wooden book cases so tightly some of the covers had started to stick together. Nain’aine directed Daryl to a shelf set deep back in the room, farthest away from the window and almost stashed in a corner as if she hoped no one would ever get to that area, kept furthest from the light of day. 

There were a few books they needed, spell books that laid out how rituals of the darkest and most forbidden magik were completed. Images and writings that cursed the very eyes that glazed over them in passing. The air around them felt heavy, menacing, and unforgiving, and Rick wasn’t sure he wanted to be within ten feet of them let alone have Daryl _touch_ them. But the redneck was already plucking the volumes off the shelves before he could protest. He had started flipping through the pages of a large book bound in black snake skin, cursing anyone who touched it, and sliding his hands down each thin page of paper in a visual aid to reading. The boy had opened the cursed book with a resilient and focused precision, unaffected by what it might be doing to him, and uncaring to its consequences. The thought made bile rise up Rick’s throat, and he had to cross his arms and pace the room as he let Daryl read. Once Daryl found the resurrection spell that Nain’e had described, he traced his fingers down the page, reading the transcription slowly and mouthing the words as he did. 

“What do we need?” Rick asked after a few minutes of Daryl reading and not saying anything.

“A lot,” the redneck murmured, reaching the bottom of the page and closing the book with that look of resignation and death clouding his eyes once more. “Few box’s worth, look’s lik’ I do need yer help cartin’ stuff aft’r all.”

\--

In the basement of the Isaacs home was a cellar, and in that cellar where cabinets upon cabinets of blessed and cursed materials. Small drawers full of every plant found across the United States, the ones not so native kept in sealed jars within their own drawers. Cupboards filled with various sized and colored bottles of liquids and oils and pickled items of the forest. Shelves filled with salts and sands and graveyard dirt and ground up roots from ancient trees. Cabinets of stones and crystals and bones, both human and animal alike. A rack filled with clothes-hangers, and on each hanger was either an animal skin, soft fur pelts, or embroidered blankets and tapestries. The room finished with an expansive counter filled with _hundreds_ of candles, and a small tower of kerosene. A store room full of everything Rick could ever think to need for a ritual, and things he couldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams and nightmares. The contents on the shelves were a horrifying combination of ancient and _fresh_ , there was even bloodstains on the floor. Rick couldn’t tell if he was appalled or astounded by the room, but either way his mouth had dropped open in awe.

Daryl grabbed a large cardboard box and started to fill it with plastic bags of various salts and sands, herbs and plants, bones and amputated animals parts, as well as a few stones and crystals and candles. Rick helped where he could, holding the bags open as Daryl measured what he needed by sight, then sealing them tight and packing them into the box with the books Daryl had brought from Nain’aine’s library. One box became two, and they carried them out of the house, not sparing a glance at Marcia Isaacs, and into the back of the truck. Rick thought that was that, until Daryl turned heel and headed back inside the house. 

Following the redneck back down into the store room, he found himself being led past all the towering cabinets and dressers to a black door at the back of the basement. Daryl opened it carefully, and Rick was hit with the smell of molding tree bark and heated plastic. Dozens upon dozens of glass cages were stacked on black wire shelvings, each glowing with white and red lights, a mixture of cords duct-taped to the walls. Inside each cage was a living animal, shaved tree bark linings and rocks and tree limbs creating elevation, making the room look like the inside of a pet store. 

And inside most of the cages were snakes. 

Sometimes multiple snakes, of various different kinds and sizes, both native and exotic; tangled and layered on top of each other in comfortable, lethargic piles of vibrant color. 

“You have a reptile house,” Rick mused out loud. “’Course ya do.”

Daryl scoffed lightly. “Ya think we buy these things?” he snickered back at his friend’s exasperation. “Easier ta breed’em.” He went to the very back, where the glass cages were as long as Rick’s bed, and the snakes as thick around as Daryl’s arms. Which was saying something. The cage Daryl went to had a large yellow and white striped snake, thick body layered back and forth on top of itself to rest comfortably beneath the heat lamps. 

“That’s-“ Rick found himself having difficulty swallowing. “That’s pretty big, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, but it’ll do,” Daryl answered, unlatching the clamps on the cage that kept the snake from lifting the lid and pulled up the wire mesh top. He reached in and lifted the front part of the snake, letting it rest on his shoulder for support before lifting another section of it out as best he could, the muscles in his arms flexing from the weight. “Ya gonna jus’ stand there an’ watch?”

Rick really didn’t want to go help lift the snake, he really, _really_ didn’t, but his feet were moving forward slowly until he was standing by the glowing glass cage. Grabbing the tail end of the snake, he lifted the heavy body and found the weight both substantial and accommodating, the animal’s scales and thousands of muscles beneath conforming to his hands and arms where they touched. Daryl was holding most of the snake, but with Rick helping he could see that the large animal must have been a good eleven or twelve feet long. 

“How we gonna carry it in the truck?” Rick found himself asking, a sickening worry that he’d have to have it wrapped around him or something as Daryl drove driving a base instinct to fucking kill the thing before it killed him rushing through his veins. 

“Jus’ throw it ‘n a plast’c tub,” Daryl answered, leading Rick towards a few that were stacked like Russian nesting dolls beneath all the cages by the door, and Rick realized his little vision of the truck might actually come true if Daryl was the one who got the largest tub separate from the rest. 

“Let me get it!” he almost shouted, hefting the rest of the snake onto Daryl’s other shoulder and rushing to pull the tubs out from under the black wire shelving. 

“Ya scared of her, Rick?” Daryl’s voice was the closest to laughing it had been that night. Rick glanced up at his friend, who struggled to hold the weight of the enormous snake, letting it stretch and travel down the length of his torso towards the floor just to distribute the amount he had to hold up with his arms and shoulders. It was a curious thing, brightly colored and shiny under the faint lamps, but not slimy as Rick had feared at first. Her tongue slithered out, tasting the air as she moved about, the strong muscles in the upper part of her body and neck letting her twist and turn in the air as she contemplated where to go to if she reached the floor. 

“No,” Rick answered too quickly, making Daryl snickered silently. “She’s just… big.”

“She’s’a Burmese python,” Daryl answered, maneuvering his arm so the snake wrapped around his tanned muscles a few times, shortening her reach towards the floor. “She’s suppos’d ta be big.” The snake looped back up at the action, using a scary amount of muscle strength to lift herself through the air and up Daryl’s torso to taste the air closer to his face. Though his arms were tense and near shaking from the strain of her weight, Daryl smiled at the python, more with his eyes than his lips, clearly having some affection for the giant animal.

“Does she have a name?” Rick felt a small smile on his own face, relishing in the soft happiness that had settled over his friend.

“She ain’t suppos’d to,” Daryl answered, that small secretive smile quirking his mouth so enticingly Rick got distracted for a minute. Obviously he had named her, told the python her name in secret while he had probably helped care for her over the months he was here. Reality had a horrible way of worming itself into the forefront of his mind, it was his constantly churning thoughts that did it, and Rick couldn’t help the sickening thought that maybe Daryl had chosen her because he had a connection with her. He had always said the Lwa responded the most to offerings that had a personal sentimentality to whoever was presenting them. 

“What are we gonna do with her?” Rick asked, fearing he already knew the answer, and when the happy look slid into one of that was so much more distant and remorseful, it broke Rick’s heart. Daryl didn’t answer, he didn’t need to, instead he observed the snake move – watched her as if memorizing her movements and mannerisms, her personality in how she moved around him, how her muscles bunched and moved her legless form along his skin. He was sad but did his best not to show it, knew he couldn’t bring himself to be, and when he saw Rick watching him, large plastic storage tub open and waiting, he carefully lowered her huge body into the container.

She curled up in contentment, sliding her head along the edges, but finding the container comfortable enough to not need to move out of it. Daryl slid his hands along the larger length of her body, carefully and gently but with no hesitation. Cautiously, and with a slight tremble to his hand, Rick did the same, staying _very far_ from her head. The python’s scales were actually a little warm from Daryl’s skin and the heat lamps of her cage, an energy and power emitting from her as she shifted her muscles inch by inch until she was comfortably settled in large looping curls inside the container, and it astonished him enough to forget his fear for just a moment. And then he was sad as well, she had no idea what was about to happen.

“t’s wha’ she was bred for,” Daryl muttered quietly, watching Rick fawn over the snake in sadness. “No’ this exac’ly, but for rituals.”

“Do ya always kill ‘em?”

“ _No_ ,” Daryl said with meaning. “Nev’r. Almos’ nev’r, we worship ‘em. They br’ng guidance, wisd’m, nothin’ is as _good_ and fair as a snake. They don’ take sides, don’ discr’m’nate, jus’ judge bas’d on wha’ is in fron’ of ‘em. Impart’al and unbias’d.”

“Then why?” Rick couldn’t bring himself to say it again, not when Daryl was gently brushing the python’s head off the side of the plastic tub until it was inside the container, and pushing the lid down on top until it snapped into place, multiple holes drilled into the top to allow air and circulation within. 

“To get the Lwa’s attention,” Daryl answered gravely once the lid was secured, straightening up and looking at Rick. He could see the tension had returned to Daryl’s shoulders, a weight settled on them that he couldn’t lift off again. It was time to return to White Oak, to do what they had come out here to accomplish. “Nothin’ get’s their attenti’n like damn’ati’n.”

\--

They got the snake out to the truck, folding the passenger seat down so they could secure the container behind their seats in the cabin of the vehicle. Nain’aine had gone to bed not long after speaking with them, her body not able to stay awake into all hours of the night like she use to be able to, and Marcia watched them silently from the porch. She didn’t look angry any more, and she didn’t watch Rick as warily, instead she had a grave and pensive look stuck on her face, morphing it into a grim frown as she watched the boys pile into the truck. Daryl gave her a small nod and raised a hand towards her in farewell, before starting the beast of a truck and turning back on to the black country roads. She didn’t nod back, more turned her eyes to the ground with a look akin to mourning as they pulled away from the soft, lit up house. She didn’t watch them leave.

The air in the cabin had changed, it was all tension and baited breath, the pause before jumping from the metaphorical cliff. Daryl’s hands clenched the steering wheel tightly, shoulders all bunched tension as if bracing for impact, and Rick’s mind was a calm storm of contemplation as he went over everything he had seen that night, everything Daryl had ever told him that might be useful. His mind was his best asset, and he would contribute however he could. He kept glancing at Daryl in the dark, but the redneck never looked away from the road. 

This time, it felt like it took no time at all to reach White Oak. 

The moon was still just a sliver, and had traveled with the stars over a short expanse of the sky. It must have been past midnight, and Rick allowed a fleeting thought to cross his mind as he wondered if his Mother had stayed awake waiting for him, before he banished it from his mind. He needed to stay in the moment, focus on what was about to happen, so he would be alive to find out about his Mother in the morning. 

The familiar back country roads started to pass by their open windows, recognizable fences and gates that belonged to Doc Greene flying past in short bursts between the endless stream of trees, the gravel beneath the tires changing to the harsh mixture of coarse gravel and shredded debris from the forest. Before long they were turning back into the Dixon lot, and Rick turned curiously to his friend, taking in how he hadn’t budged an inch since getting into the vehicle. 

“We forget somethang?” he asked, noting the change in his own voice, precision and calm lowering the tone in his words. His ‘cop voice’ as Shane would call it, he had taken it on during drills at the academy, it happened when he became focused on a task that required every inch of him. No distractions.

“Need tha’ table,” Daryl answered, words back to their short, clipped mutters that happened when Daryl was in a similar mind-set. They didn’t need much communication, they worked well together without it, so Rick didn’t think much of Daryl’s behavior while they were in the Dixon lot. 

“I’ll get it,” Rick told him as they pulled up to the tattered house, such a stark contrast to the Isaacs house. “Keep her running.” The old beast was a pain in the ass to start if they had to turn it off. He slid out of the truck and loped into the house, the screen door open like it always was, and found the table right where they had left it. Still caked in blood with small pools staining the carpet below it. He pushed it onto its side, and folded up the legs before heaving it up and carrying it out the door. Daryl had turned the truck around in the lot so they could climb the hill forwards, and Rick lifted the blood stained card table into the bed of the truck quickly. They were quick, efficient, and were in and out of the lot in no time. It gave Rick a sense of reassurance, how well they moved together. As long as they had each other, he felt they would live through this night.

\--

Rick had never gotten to the clearing by road before. He had always gotten lost in the swamp and stumbled upon it, always on accident as if the spirits of the forest were trying to help keep it a secret, so he didn’t know the way. He also had blind faith in Daryl, not only in that way that you always trusted a driver to know where they were going when you were a passenger, but because of the amount of affection and trust he had for the other young man. 

So when he recognized the plantation road where his grandparents lived come into view, and felt Daryl slowing to turn, panic seized through his chest like he had been electrocuted. What was he doing.

“Daryl,” he breathed out, a warning more than a question. But Daryl just turned the wheel as they reached the road, the gravel beneath crunching forebodingly in place of any words Daryl could have spoken.

“Daryl!” Rick almost shouted, “You ain’t taking me home.” But the redneck wasn’t answering him, wasn’t even looking at him.

“Stop the truck.” It was a command, not a request, and Rick felt anger and panic swelling inside him, building and building into the quiet rage that changed his tone and stilled his whole body. “Stop. The truck.” He hadn’t voiced a threat, but he might as well have, nothing could mistake the low, dangerous tone that showed the rage simmering beneath his skin. His mouth was a thin line, jaw clenched shut to keep him from doing anything rash, and all he had to do was breath out through his nose slowly and shift to sit up higher, preparing to do _something_ that may or may not cause damage to make Daryl pull over and stop the vehicle. Pushing the parking break up with more force than necessary, still not looking at Rick.

Rick almost couldn’t find the words.

Almost.

“You’re not doin’ this.”

“Watch me,” Daryl challenged, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“I’m goin’ with you,” Rick told him, having shifted so he was turned in his seat and facing his friend, one leg bent up and his back to the passenger window. Daryl could not look at him all he wanted, Rick was going to face him for this entire argument. His intense blue eyes staring him down angrily. “You’re not leavin’ me at home.”

“Yer jus’ gonna get in the way,” Daryl said, detached and careless. Rick saw right through him.

“Oh, like I was at yer house with Ryan,” he remarked snidely, pettily. “If I was such a fuckin’ nuisance ya should’a just said so.” His tone was all snark and sarcasm and thin layers of venom, that Daryl thought he could fucking pull that. Daryl breathed heavily through his nose, a sigh that was more frustration than impatience. And it was starting to annoy Rick like an itch in the back of his mind. “Ya ain’t doing this alone.”

“Bett’r off alone.”

“Uh-huh,” Rick said. “Do I even _have_ ta call bullshit or-“

“Damnit Rick I don’ wan’cha there!” Daryl almost shouted, anger lacing his features. 

“Too bad,” Rick sneered, a little tilt to his head in emphasis, not taking his blue eyes off the livid redneck next to him. Daryl’s pale blue snapped to his, and he didn’t even blink, just bore his gaze straight into Daryl’s, unaffected by the anger that resided heavily in them. “Also, _bullshit_.”

“ _NOT_ bullshit,” Daryl seethed, almost shaking in his fury. “I don’ wan’cha in tha’ clearin’! Or anywhere _near_ my family! Or me! I wan’ ya outta this fuckin’ car and insid’ yer goddamn house! An’ I don’ wan’cha comin’ back!” His eyes were ablaze with fury, hands pointing and waving in multiple directions through his rant, and the smoke screen of typical backwoods angry _Dixon_ wasn’t enough to send Rick running. He had lived through too many outbursts, intervened in too many fights between Daryl and Shane, to let what Daryl was screaming at him affect him like it should. Those memories were enough to stop the clinching feeling in his chest, that could’ve been heartbreak or could’ve been his lungs seizing up, but he powered through it because Daryl _wasn’t fucking doing this to him._

“And I said too fuckin’ bad!” Rick shouted back, as loud as Daryl’s screams but nowhere near as hysteric as the redneck. 

“I’m no’ lettin’ ya go ta tha’ clearin’ you son’va’bi-“

“ _LET_ me,” Rick shouted in disbelief. “Ya ain’t gonna _let_ me do _shit_ because you are NOT my fuckin’ keeper Daryl Dixon-“

“FUCK, JUST SHUT UP AN’ GET OUTTA MY FUCKIN’ TRUCK!”

“YOU’RE GONNA HAV’TA _DRAG_ ME OUT BY MY COLD, _DEAD_ -“

“ _SHUT’UP!_ ” Daryl slammed his hands against the steering wheel so hard that if the airbags still worked they would’ve gone off. “FUCK, JUST SHUT’UP! Don’ say - I can’ le’ that happ’n ta ya Rick!”

“Let _what_ happen,” Rick pressed, not slowing his momentum.

“The fuckin’ curse! It’s gonna kill ya! An’ I _can’t_ -“ Daryl cut himself off, tearing his furious glare from his friend’s face as the surge of all the emotions inside the small cabin choked off his words. And Rick’s chest started to tighten again for an entirely different reason.

“It’s gonna curse us all, Daryl,” he reminded him.

“ _Not_ you,” Daryl said through clenched teeth, emotion straining his words, pale blue eyes snapping back to Rick’s clear blue ones. “Not ta you, I can’t do tha’. I won’ – I won’ make it knowin’ I fuckin’ curs’d ya Rick, tha’ yer death will be _my fuckin’ fault_. So ya ain’t goin’ ta that clearin’, I ain’t lettin’ tha’ happ’n. Ya don’ _know_ -“ Rick couldn’t take one more second.

He shifted forward, using his leg to brace himself over the center console and loom right up into Daryl’s space so he was hovering over him. It was a swift movement, one swoop forward that had his hands grasping Daryl’s face and burying his fingers into his hair, holding him in place as he crashed his lips right into the other boys. He wasn’t messing this up twice.

Daryl’s breath left him and seized up his entire body, frozen in place, and Rick kept moving. Breathing him in, holding his lips against Daryl’s purposefully, then pulling back for just a moment to stare right into the other’s pale blue eyes, as wide and startled as Rick had ever seen them. Rick breathed through his nose, letting the adrenaline course through him and give him the confidence to lean in again, push against Daryl’s lips. His own were fuller than Daryl’s, covering the other’s mouth entirely as he moved against him, maneuvering Daryl’s lips until they started to move on their own. A slight tremor to the movement, but he felt Daryl relax a bit into Rick’s kiss, slowly melting and molding to him as he let the older boy take control in a push and pull like the tide of the ocean, kissing Daryl again and again and _again_. Gently prying the other’s mouth open, licking lightly at the seam of his lips but never venturing further, tracing the taste of Daryl Dixon and memorizing it forever. Kissing him breathless, and he knew it because the other was starting to tremble from the lack of oxygen, panting through open lips more than kissing back as Rick continued ravaging his mouth. His hands had traveled to grasp at Rick’s waist, clenching onto his shirt and holding on for dear life. 

Having to pull back eventually, not able to breathe, Rick panted against Daryl’s mouth in time with the other’s constant attempts to draw air into his lungs. He leaned his forehead against the Dixon’s, breathing in time with him, not letting go of where his fingers had threaded through the other’s long dark blonde hair. His nose brushed against Daryl’s, lips still leaving small kisses all over his mouth, his lightly swollen lips, the small mark to the left of his mouth, everywhere he could reach. He locked eyes with Daryl’s, the pupils blown so wide the pale blue was a mere ring eclipsed by black, and leaned in as if to kiss him again, but began speaking so closely that he was basically speaking words _against_ Daryl’s lips. 

“I’m not leavin’ you, Daryl Dixon,” his voice was heavy, want and need and emotion lowering it to a deep bass. “If you leave me at that house I _will_ come find you.” His gaze was mere inches from Daryl’s wide blue eyes. “Nothang is gonna stop me from bein’ at yer side, not even you.” 

There was pride, for a moment, adoration in Daryl’s gaze that spoke volumes; Rick couldn’t count how many times Daryl had looked at him like he was wondering how he was even _real_. And that feeling was an elation Rick could never get enough of, got high off of, wanted to drown in because it made him feel invincible. Daryl was dazed and struck with lust, still panting and staring at Rick like he was the moon that he thought he would never reach until he crashed into it with such force it shook him to his core. Until the moment when Daryl remembered where he was, stopped focusing on the twitching of his hands that dared to drag Rick over the center console and into his lap, wanting to kiss the other until it killed them both. And instead realized he was going to bring someone back from the dead, that Rick loved him too much to leave him to his fate, no matter how much Daryl insisted, and the look disappeared like a wisp of smoke.

Something shattered in Daryl’s gaze, something broken and splintered right before his eyes, a realization and shock and horror that Rick wasn’t expecting. He couldn’t tell if it looked like heartbreak or not, the kind of heartbreak when you see a tragedy unfolding before you, or the kind of heartbreak when you destroy something beautiful without even meaning to. His eyes were back to normal, arousal no longer apparent, and the pale blue searched within Rick’s clear blue, for any trace of whatever he feared that Rick couldn’t place. He found it, if the dismal and distant look was anything to go by, and Rick’s heart felt like it had shattered with Daryl’s. He could almost see the ricocheted pieces within his best friend, and his breath was stolen from him. What just happened?

Rick felt dirty knowing the kiss had been a distraction, to get Daryl out of his protective rant and to _make_ him understand that Rick couldn’t live with himself if he let Daryl go to that clearing alone. It was selfish, and close to cheating, tainting what should have been something wonderful and life-changing. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Daryl did the exact same thing to him. 

The younger man pushed himself up a little until his lips brushed against Rick’s for the first time on his own accord; it was purposeful and soft and had a finality that scared Rick to death. Grounded him and dragged his heart to the bottom of his stomach violently. He used the momentum and pressure to move Rick back into his own seat, along with guidance from his hands still at Rick’s sides. And when Rick was seated he let go, his eyes emotionless once more, as he turned back towards the road and pulled back onto the gravel. 

He did turn the truck around, but he didn’t look at Rick again, and Rick didn’t have the courage to ask him to.

Daryl had basically begged him to not make him do this, to not damn Rick to whatever hell he would live through if he became cursed with the rest of the Dixons. To not put that black mark on his soul, a weight Daryl would have to live with for the rest of his life. 

And Rick, selfish, young, _stupid_ Rick had thrown it back in his face.

That thing he had feared, of pushing Daryl so far he might lose him, he had done it.

All because of love.


	13. Raise Hell, Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay, I thought I was getting better at updates but this chapter gave me some trouble. It is LONG. Exceedingly long, too long really but I wasn't going to split it up again. The ending is a little rushed and I apologize for that, I'm going to elaborate further in the next chapter so no need for confusion.
> 
> This chapter is weird, I warn you, weird and graphic and disturbing in places. So here come the warnings: animal sacrifice (again), graphic depictions of violence, lots of offensive language (and gay-bashing slurs thanks to Merle), over all creepy descriptions, trippy disturbing mixes of arousal and violence. And yeah it just gets weird and intense. And it's long. Did I mention that?
> 
> I have finally broken 100,000 words, thank you to every single one of you who have followed this story and read my insanely long chapters. Every kudos and comment brightens my day, you have no idea. I can't tell you how greatful I am, your continued dedication means the world to me. 
> 
> Another big shout out to The_Royal_Goard for beta-ing this chapter, with the serious struggle I had here it now flows wonderfully and I am so happy with how it turned out. No matter how drained I feel after reading it. I hope you all enjoy it :)

“Wha’ the _fuck_ ,” Merle’s whole face scrunched up in anger, twisting into a heavy set frown with a snarl twitching at the side of his mouth. Upon seeing the approaching vehicle and its occupants, he threw down the tinder he had snagged for the bonfires, so violently the branches snapped and scattered upon impact with the ground.

“Wha’ the _fuck_ ‘s’he still doin’ here!” Merle hollered, storming across the lot towards the rumbling truck that had just been shifted into park, pointing over at Rick but yelling at his little brother. Daryl kicked open the driver’s door without turning off the vehicle, anticipating the fight before they had even arrived at the lot. Rick hung off the frame on his side, almost weary to even step foot onto the ground. 

“Caus’ he’s fuckin’ stubborn,” Daryl shot back, frustration having settled into his bones on the ride over. The short ride from the plantation road to the clearing had been awkward at best, Daryl had progressed from sad to indifferent to angry as he over-thought everything that had just taken place in the truck. And Rick watched it happen, practically feeling the thoughts and gears turning over in the other’s head, mulling over the veiled manipulation that Rick still regretted but ultimately wouldn’t have taken back. It was a good distraction from his own guilt, watching Daryl contain everything until his emotions were boiling over within him, and Daryl hadn't snapped at Rick once.

In fact the redneck was ignoring him.

“Tha’ ain’t a fuckin’ reason, why didn’ ya drop his ass off on the sid’a the road!?” Merle demanded, coming up right into Daryl’s space as they met halfway between the truck and the parked Toyota, which also had its lights on so the older men could see around the lot while they had waited for the younger Dixon to return. Daryl and Merle’s silhouettes cut through the crossed headlights, scattering the streams behind them and illuminating their shouting match like the clearing was a stage. 

“I fuckin’ tried, he wouldn’ go,” Daryl snapped, letting his anger that should have rightfully been directed at Rick loose on his brother. “Get outta my damn face ‘bout it!” 

“Ya let that pansy ass, fuckin’ rich shit push ya aroun’-“

“He wan’s’ta help so bad, he can – dig ‘is own grave fer all I care. Jus’ deal wit’it and put’im ta work!”

“I’m right here,” Rick said behind them, causing Merle to send this _withering_ glare his direction and for Daryl to hunch his shoulders but still refused to turn around and look at him. Merle had a good six to seven inches on Daryl in height, so he glared over his brother’s shoulder, head high and eyes piercing, before pointing in his direction threateningly.

“Ya best shut yer trap before I beat ya into the dirt an’ leave ya there so we can get this shit done!” He called, no hesitation or bluffing in his tone. Rick glared back but did keep his mouth clamped shut, no matter how much he wanted to shout at the older Dixon. The activities of the night had alleviated most of the fear he had for the man, but he knew any retort he wanted to say would only aggravate the situation further. Merle’s anger could burn for hours, as strong and harsh as his brother’s, the infamous Dixon family temper. And he could hold a grudge with the best of them, so for the sake of peace Rick had to keep quiet and let Daryl do this on his own. 

“Where’s Pa?” Daryl asked through gritted teeth, doing his outright best to not even acknowledge his friend behind him.

“Drinkin’ hims’lf und’r the kitchen table,” Merle snorted.

“Not at our house he ain’t.”

Merle actually looked surprised. “He ain’t home?”

“Jus’ came from there, hadta grab tha’ table. He ain’t there.”

“Well he ain’t here either,” Merle grumbled. “Good riddance, don’ need his pucker’d old ass aroun’ anyway. Down one man ain’ that bad.”

“Two,” Daryl muttered. “Colby can’ be anywhere near, too dangerous.” They looked over at the other twin, who had been helping cart branches and brush for the bonfires, but kept straying back to the car to stare through the back window. As if he didn’t believe his brother would still be lying there. The load he was currently carrying slipped through his arms and to the ground, knocking him out of the exhausted daze he was in, and sending the man scrambling to pick everything up after he tore his eyes away from the car window.

“Cause he’s a dip’shit ‘er ‘cause it’s his brother,” Merle said, but no venom laced the insult as they watched the tragic scene.

“Bit’a both,” Daryl answered quietly. “Keep’em busy, and away from every’thin’ when we get started.” Daryl’s response wasn’t quite a question, but Merle nodded in agreement anyway. Catching his brother’s eye after a moment. “Let’s get it done.”

Merle had brought a lot of things from the house, seeming to have forgotten the table, but remembered to grab salt and bowls and a shit ton of candles. He snagged Colby by his shirt sleeve roughly, pulling him along like a cat grabbing a kitten by the scruff of their neck, and dragged him over to the trunk of the car to start unloading everything. 

Daryl approached the truck to do the same, and brushed right past Rick without even looking at him.

_Really?_

Circling the truck, Rick breathed deeply through his nose to settle his anger growling low within him and approached his friend. He knew Daryl saw him, but the redneck made no indication he was even there, seeming to be forcefully ignoring him. They were too old for this shit. Rick came up right to where he was unlatching the tailgate on the truck, preparing to unload everything they had brought from the Isaacs house, and stood close enough he knew Daryl could feel him there. 

“I’m sorry you’re angry with me,” Rick said lowly, head down and hands on his hips, quiet enough that only the two of them could hear. “I get why-” Daryl’s stoic face shifted to a frown as he yanked one of the heavier boxes across the rusted metal truck bed and made to walk off with it, but Rick stopped the movement by latching his hand on the box, pinning Daryl in place. “-but I’m not sorry I’m here.” He ducked his head until he was looking Daryl in the eyes, despite the fact the redneck was trying to look _anywhere else_. “And I’m not leavin’, so make yer peace with that and let me help you.” 

“Ya expect me ta make this easy on you?” Daryl growled, finally pinning his narrowed glare on Rick, peering angrily at him from beneath his bangs, his tone as disbelieving and livid as he could make it whispered between his clenched teeth. “I didn’ want ya here.”

“But I am,” Rick insisted, holding tighter to the box as Daryl tried to yank it out of his grasp. “We’ve got a lot ta do and little time ta do it, so _use me_ , be angry at me later. I just wanna make sure we all make it through tonight alive, then ya can hate me all ya want.” It felt more like a confession than an explanation, and Rick did his best to not let his heart lodge in his throat. “Long as yer still breathing.”

“I fuckin’ hate you sometimes,” Daryl grumbled, refusing to look at him again. 

“I know,” Rick answered, and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “I’m okay with that.” The redneck finally graced him with a look from his pale blue eyes that wasn’t full of negativity, watching him with just small traces of weariness. He already felt tricked and betrayed by his friend once that night, and Rick swore he would spend the rest of his life making it up to him if the Dixon would let him. But they had a ritual to perform. So he leveled his hardened gaze at the other, trying to show the calm determination without speaking it. “What can I do?” It took Daryl a moment to accept it, his apology that wasn’t really an apology, because Rick wasn’t sorry, but seemed to give in to what was happening and let the anger slide off of him in peace.

He jutted his head towards the table in the back, “Start scrapin’ the blood offa tha’ table, put it in one’a the bowls, gonna need it pretty soon.”

\--

The air was thick, crackling with unseen tension that licked across Rick’s skin like electricity. The wind had started to pick up, bringing looming dark clouds and creating a ceiling over the clearing that was easy to miss in the darkness. But the sun would begin rising in a few short hours, so the group had to start getting to work, down two men not counting the body of their fallen friend in the back of the Toyota. Colby was useless, barely able to focus enough to help gather branches for the fucking fires so Merle sent him back to the car to stare at his brother’s corpse. 

And Old Man Dixon was still nowhere to be seen.

The older Dixon brother had brought bags of road salt from the house, slicing them open for his brother in the same practiced movements that Daryl had demonstrated in his room earlier that evening. Christ, had it only been ten hours ago that they were making the pentagram on his bedroom floor?

This time Daryl was meticulous, and spent almost an _hour_ pouring lines of salt across the lot, tracing out a large circle that must have been ten feet wide. Inside the circle no pentagram was made, instead swirls and curls and symbols that represented celestial forces and magik elements were made in repetitive patterns within the circle, and more outside of it. A lot of the symbols Rick had seen on the altar and carved into the wooden door frames at his grandparent’s house, and they were comforting to see. But they were spaced between others that had a sinister air about them, made him uneasy to even look at them though he wasn’t sure why. 

While he did this, Merle and Rick set out candles across the clearing. A _lot_ of candles, dozens upon dozens in no real pattern or accurate spacing, but once all of them were lit the whole clearing was as bright as if the sun had been shining on it. They also gathered up the tinder that had been collected for the bonfires and made four small piles outside of the circle of salt. The placement of the piles had to be precise, one in each cardinal direction, with the largest pile formed to the South. 

The two had finished long before Daryl did, and stood leaning against the truck waiting patiently. Rick traced the lines of Daryl’s back and shoulders as he worked, the dozens of small flames dancing against the sheen of sweat on his arms, long hair continuously brushed out of his eyes so he could see his work. It wasn’t until he saw the curve of his spine straighten, cracking it from the uncomfortable position it had been in, that Rick saw Daryl observing his work both critically and wearily. As if he wanted to stall but knew he couldn’t. 

Pale blue eyes were suddenly locked with his from across the clearing, and Rick could see the determination that had returned. He allowed the fleeting romantic thought of the clearing flutter at the forefront of his mind, making his heart swell a little in nostalgia and elation, to distract from what was about to happen. The thought that this was the clearing, _their_ clearing; the thing that he had searched for tirelessly for years, the place he had _met_ Daryl, and that none of the long summers and wonderful _crazy_ things they had done together would have happened if he hadn’t stumbled upon it all those years ago. He remembered a few phrases from the whispered conversation they had when they were small, hidden behind the trees. For years it was a broken record of _‘Don’t look! It’ll curse ya! Then I can’t help you, no one will.’_ and _‘hey, don’t come back. It ain’t safe here._ ’ A childhood filled with fear of the word ‘curse’ and a challenge of returning to a place he was told not to. But it wasn’t until that moment that he remembered something that Daryl had said after. Rick had asked what about him? When Daryl told him to run. _‘I’ll be fine’_ , Daryl had answered him, seven years old, without batting an eye.

_‘I belong here.’_

And standing there, among the salt and flames and ancient symbols, Daryl did look like he belonged there. That he was something ethereal and untouchable, and he could melt back into the forest within an instant because he was _a part_ of it. He always had been.

“Bring ev’rythin’.”

Rick carted over the boxes with the remaining supplies, the books and crystals and animal parts, and Merle hefted the big container holding the Burmese python. Daryl immediately started shifting through the boxes once Rick dropped them on the ground, being particularly careful to not step outside the circle. He pulled out the dark black chunks of quartz and the fresh green moss, and started placing them within the bundles of branches and tinder, and instructing Rick to start unloading all the bowls brought from the house, including the one with the dried flakes of Ryan’s blood from the table, filling the rest with salts and herb mixtures and bits of animal bones and flesh. The bowls were placed in a half circle from East to West on the North side of the circle, and Rick wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be stepping in and out of the lines of salt like he was but Daryl never reprimanded him for it. 

In fact the only thing he nit-picked was that the bowls had to be evenly spaced, and none of them could be South of the bonfire bundles representing East and West. Rick actually knelt on the ground in the circle to place them as evenly as he could, and was only distracted by the shrieking creak of the old Toyota doors opening. Metal on metal scraping from the indented door on the back rear area on the driver’s side. Merle had to physically remove Colby from the car to get the door open, and reached in for Ryan’s prone body. He lifted him up beneath his shoulders and knees, being unusually careful about the process, and it said something about Merle’s state of grief that he gave his friend the only amount of respect he could. Sniggering under his breath joylessly, asking the lifeless form how many times he’s been carried like a drunk girl out of a dive bar. Ryan’s limbs had started to stiffen, but the blood had only started clotting, so his skin had lost the glow it use to have but it didn’t appear grey like Rick had feared. He had never really seen a dead body. He never even saw his Father’s, he had refused to go up and say goodbye during the funeral.

“Wher’ ya wan’ him Dary’lina?” Merle asked, approaching the circle despite the withering look Daryl shot him from behind his bangs. The younger Dixon pointed to the middle of the circle, indicating with his hand to lay Ryan long ways from East to West, once again not crossing that line into the Southern half of the ring. 

Everything seemed to be in place once Ryan was on the ground, and Rick looked around the clearing, taking in the now still vehicles that had been turned off, the dozens of candles lighting the small clearing brightly, flames dancing against the tree bark and casting dark shadows between them. Colby didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, and stuck to Merle’s side, but his tired eyes never left his brother’s still body on the ground.

And Daryl was looking at Rick, dark and contemplating and eyes as unreadable as ever. But this time he was outright staring at him. So Rick couldn’t help but stare back.

“Ya really wan’ta help?”

Rick didn’t think he could ever deny Daryl anything, never really had a reason to distrust his judgment or lose the faith he had in his friend. But in that moment, Rick had a fleeting feeling of hesitation, giving them a chance to stretch a meaningful silence between them. He couldn’t tell you what conversation happened between their eyes, different hues of blue conversing in something beyond language. But Rick knew with every fiber of his being that he would go to the ends of the Earth for this man. Do whatever he asked, no matter how strange, so yes he did still want to help. He really, really did. So with a shifting clench to his jaw, and a hard set to his eyes, he nodded in agreement. Definite and final, the pause before his answer not lessening it in any way, but solidifying the fortitude of it. Daryl’s sharp tilt of his chin was the best acknowledgement Rick would hope for, and also an indicator to enter the circle. 

Carefully stepping into the intricate lines of salt, Rick did his best to not disturb the patterns and symbols until he was standing in front of Daryl. He hadn’t looked over to Ryan’s prone body on the ground, or Colby’s rigid vigil standing like a statue outside the circles of salt and branches and stones, or Merle – who had been watching their exchange silently until his little brother had motioned for Rick to enter the _ve’ve_. His scoff shattered the silence like a stone breaking a glass window.

“Ain’t that precious,” he sneered, but not with his usual playful cruelty, this time venom laced every word, and Rick felt the color draining from his face. “This ain’t a damn _date_ , Daryl. Save yer fuckin’ flirtin’ fer when we ain’t got shit ta do. He ain’t no more fit ta help than I am workin’ a stripp’r pole. And we gonna have a _long_ chat ‘bout-“ Daryl's heavy sigh was so loud his brother could even hear him over his own rantings, making his words increase in volume. “-wha’cha been up to, and don’chu fuckin’ _sigh_ at me! Smack that dumb look right off’ya face!”

“Merle,” Daryl interrupted. “Jus’ shut up ‘n get-“

“Wha’d ya just say ta me!? Ain’t gonna let’cha choose this uppity little shit an’ let’im trample all over the place and fuck up the rit’ual fer us. Keep yer damn rich-blood’d, faggot-y, boy scout away from all this _like I damn told ya to-“_

“MERLE!” Daryl shouted, anger bursting from him like powder keg. “SHU’THE FUCK UP AN’ GE’ IN THE DAMN CIRCLE!”

“He ain’t yer blood, sure as shit ain’t kin, don’t know shit ‘bout-“

“JESUS CHRIST MERLE,” Daryl had gone to the very edge of the circle and snagged his brother by the arm, pulling him in as the two continued to shout in each other’s faces once more. “Yer fuckin’ helping too, get in the damn circle. Fuck do ya ev’r stop bitching.”

“Tired’f yer damn sulkin’ and starin’ – wha’cha mean I’m helpin’ too?” He finally blanched. “Don’ need two damn assistants, ‘m I gonna rub yer feet for ya while ya chant?” Rick did his best not to smile, but knew he looked amused at the jealousy that was so _obvious_ in the older Dixon’s voice. His eyes must have given it away, because Daryl only looked at him for a second before his own eyes gave off a smirk that didn’t reach his lips, and he returned his gaze to his brother. Rick was slowly getting acquainted with what it felt like to be on Daryl Dixon’s bad side.

“He’s scar’d’a the snake.” 

Rick knew his mouth dropped open a bit, because… what? Well – it was kinda true, but _really?_ Daryl was watching his reaction out of the corner of his eye, and Merle was looking at his shocked face too, but he didn’t hide the smirk Daryl had so carefully concealed.

“Pussy,” he huffed in laughter, making Daryl snort in his non-laughter as well. Rick knew he was red in the face by that point. Fucking Dixons. 

\--

The mixture was cold and slick, whatever it was, the humid summer air keeping the grainy texture from drying on his skin like wet sand. Daryl’s fingers traced over the planes of his face in identical swipes, across his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, until the lines extended over the curve of his jaw and down his neck. Rick tried to sit as still as possible, but he felt like electrical currents were coursing beneath his skin, seizing his lungs that suddenly became too big for his chest, the shallow breaths he drew through his nose not enough to keep him from shaking. It felt like he was suffocating. 

Despite the fact that he felt like he was _drowning_ in the over-whelming sensations and lack of oxygen, the whole process was oddly sensual, personal and intimate with the two of them sitting only inches apart. Even though _what_ Daryl was painting on his face – and arms, and hands – was made of blood and mud and oils and other things that Rick didn’t want to think about. But the mixture smelled clean, fresh like the forest floor after a rain storm. Once the redneck had finished with his face he sat back on his knees, putting almost a foot of distance between them, and Rick thought it was over, breathing deeply in relief at having his personal space returned to him. It had been a _long_ ten minutes of having nothing to do but stare at Daryl’s face, tracing over the lines that adorned the other’s tan skin, the white and brown lines accentuating his pale blues eyes that glowed like lanterns in the candlelight. He heart had been permanently lodged in his throat the entire time, and he tried so hard to focus on _anything_ other than the fact that Daryl was touching him. Especially after what happened in the truck not an hour before. But every trace of his fingers was like fire, hot and cold and assaulting his senses with an overload of emotional turmoil to pair with it inside his head. 

He had finished the designs all over Merle’s face and shoulders first, and there hadn’t been any hesitation, no awkwardness. Merle accepted his little brother drawing on him with a relaxed and well practiced stance, showing how often they had prepped for rituals like this. The fact that Daryl could paint even lines on his own face from just muscle memory alone, because they certainly hadn’t brought any mirrors with them, should have given that fact away much sooner. 

The lines on Merle’s shoulders and chest that showed around his tattered wife-beater should have also prepped Rick for what happened next, oddly he hadn’t even thought about what was drawn on Merle and what was missing on himself. Daryl sat back, wiped his hands on his pants to get rid of the excess mud, cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders to release any tension, a snap and pop coming from the sore curve of his spine. Rick was ready to move to the next step, whatever was going to come next to continue the ritual. Or begin it, he wasn’t really well versed in what was going to happen. But then the other boy leaned towards him again, movements still showing no hesitation and all calculated precision, and reached for the buttons on his shirt. Rick was sure his whole body seized up, and his brain sort of fizzled out, focused only on watching Daryl’s fingers start to undo the top few buttons. There shouldn’t have been _anything_ fascinating about Daryl’s deft fingers twisting the fabric free of the plastic fastenings, but Rick couldn’t look away. Daryl huffed at him watching his fingers, causing Rick to tear his eyes away from the other exposing the skin on his chest inch by inch. “Relax, princess,” Daryl almost laughed. “We’ll keep ya mod’st.” Rick scowled at his teasing, also huffing through his nose but not in humor.

“I can just take it off,” Rick muttered, his response more out of being practical than suggestive, but Daryl cut him a smoldering look from beneath his bangs. Rick ducked his head to hide his smile, biting at his lips to hold it back, as Daryl reached for the mud mixture once more. “Ain’t nothin’ y’all ain’t seen before.”

“Keep it on,” Daryl answered, shifting the fabric to expose Rick’s collar bones and chest, the straps from the _gris-gris_ trailing down the exposed skin as well. “This is jus’ ta make ya accept’ble, pretty ya up fer the Lwa.”

“Pretty me up?” Rick smirked, following Daryl’s fingers again as he traced the cool substance across his clavicle and breast plate.

“He’s pretty enough,” Merle scowled, still watching the two of them like a hawk. “Ya done pettin’ him yet? Ain’t got time fer ya ta be strokin’ each other’d dicks-“

“Almost done, quit yer bitchin’,” Daryl shot back, his cheeks turning red beneath the white lines on his skin. The touch still made Rick’s skin shudder, but he held his breath once more and let Daryl finish his work.

\--

He wasn’t going to lie, standing there next to Merle Dixon while Daryl – meditated, or whatever he was doing – was the most _nerve-wrecking_ experience of his life. And his junior prom date had a Father who had insisted on showing him his gun collection and telling stories of his honors as a sniper in the army. This was so much worse than that. So Rick focused on Daryl, who had slid off his own shirt like shedding a second skin, and had painted the flat toned muscles on his chest and abdomen with more symbols and lines, before sitting in the circle facing Ryan’s body and closing his eyes. He hadn’t moved since he had sat down, seeming to only be focusing on breathing, leaving Merle and Rick to wait until he was “ready” to begin. 

Their placement gave Rick a good exposed view of the other’s back.

The raised flesh made a topographical map across Daryl’s skin, some of the long lines still puckered and raised and healing, others only discolored strips across his back. Many of them crossed, creating grotesque and fascinating patterns, and no matter how much Rick knew Daryl thought of them as weakness, Rick couldn’t help but think of them like armor. The flesh was pale on his back, cutting to dark tan where his clothes would end in scattered lines of different color like a paint palette strip you found at the home improvement stores. Rick couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen Daryl without a shirt; probably when they were little, because they hadn’t been to the pond at Doc Greene’s in a long time. 

“Stop starin’,” Merle growled, low and angry and protective, making Rick want to smile but he knew better than to do so. “Ya spoiled rich kids ain’ nev’r been whupp’d with a belt? Yer Pa shoul’ know bett’r.”

“My Pa’s dead,” Rick answered without missing a beat and without looking at the older man. “And I wasn’t lookin’ at those.” He had been at first, more than he knew Daryl would be comfortable with, but then his gaze traced over the black ink settled into the skin on Daryl’s shoulder. “When did he get that?” It was the image of two demons, falling in opposite directions – one up, one down – but both grasping the other’s hand tightly. It was hard to determine who was saving who, which was oddly fitting in Rick’s opinion.

He had never really seen anyone with a tattoo up close, just passing glances of people on the street, with the colorful emblems adorning their arms and shoulders like patterned shirt sleeves. But standing there watching Daryl breath in and out deeply, the muscles on his back and shoulders flexing and moving with each expansion of his lungs, he could see how the design was moving _with_ the skin like a living thing. It was both a part of Daryl and an entity all its own, the devils on his shoulders that Rick _knew_ were meant to remind him of who he was and what he had done. And after tonight their meaning would only intensify.

“Las’ summ’r,” Merle replied simply, now looking at the tattoo as well. “Jess took ‘im ta get it done, hid it from us fer a couple months there. Don’ know wha’ the fuck it means.” Rick couldn’t hold back the small upturn of his lips, _no, you wouldn’t_. A selfish sense of pride rose within him, that he would always know his friend better than his own family did. And though he tried to push the thought back, he knew he loved him just as much as well.

Rick always did his best to not use that word when thinking of Daryl Dixon.

He didn’t want to accidentally say it out loud one day.

Not when neither of them was ready to hear it yet.

Finally Daryl took a deep breath that raised his head and made his muscles shift around, opening his eyes on the exhale, and turning around to see his brother and his friend watching him. He had a moment to look apprehensive about his exposed back, but shook it off after a few seconds and decided that there were more important things to do now.

“Grab the books an’ the snake,” Daryl said, his voice low and gruff as it always was when he went without speaking for a length of time. Rick would forever love that sound. The two men pushed themselves off the truck and went to grab the items requested. Rick set the books down beside the circle, not sure which one Daryl needed, and Merle maneuvered the giant plastic tub until it was closer to the _ve’ve_ as well.

Colby still stood to the side, staring down at his brother’s still form, standing so _incredibly_ still that Rick kept forgetting he was there. He had no idea what was going on in the other’s head, but wave upon wave of grief slid off of him and he couldn’t help but feel so _heartbroken_ at the sight he had to tear his eyes away after only a mere glance. The man like a statue, as motionless and cold as stone, and silently watching guard over something precious to him that was never going anywhere.

Opening the top of the tub and revealing the snake inside, Merle stared down at the giant python that would be the offering. “Big haus, huh?” Rick heard him mutter before reaching in and lifting the entire snake out of the plastic container, the long loops of its body sliding over his arms like warm spaghetti. Once again, Rick _really_ didn’t want to hold the snake, but as Daryl had said it was too dangerous for Colby to help, so inhaling deeply through his nose, Rick squared his shoulders and stepped up to take some of the snake’s enormous body. They unfurled the yellow and white python, the twisting curls it made with its body more stubborn to extend as they stretched it across the circle. Daryl motioned more than spoke, getting them to stand next to the unlit East and West bonfires, the snake stretched long over Ryan’s corpse. 

The younger redneck looked primal like this, lines of white and brown and red decorating his bare torso and face, tracing over the muscles in his arms like a canvas. His hair had gone stringy and messy from the humidity, and his eyes were as sure and focused as Rick had ever seen them. Hardened to stones of sharp blue crystal, narrowed and attentive. Rick held the tail end of the snake, a bit of the long body wrapped around his forearm to help hold its weight, while Merle held its head and supported the rest of its body and neck with his arms extended, letting the animal curl around his giant arms for support. 

Daryl approached the head of the snake, who looked quite content despite being stretched seven feet across a giant circle of salt. He had the bowls in his hands again, the ones that held the mud mixtures and Ryan’s blood, and started to draw along the body of the snake. Muttering under his breath as he did so, but from across the circle Rick couldn’t hear what he was saying. As his friend traced his fingers along the body of the snake, coming closer to his end, he could hear him speaking in French again, or what sounded like French. Rick really needed to take a class or something. With one last line in mud drawn down the tail of the python, curling around Rick’s arms, Daryl ceased his chanting quietly, catching Rick’s blue eyes with his own for a moment, and nodded at him solemnly. After hours of preparation, they were finally ready.

Standing in the direct center of the circle, Daryl drew the long hunting knife he always kept on his hip, and held it by the handle with both hands, raising it high and breathing deep through his nose. 

_“Nan non lespri nan peyi sa a, nou ba ou sa a ofri an echanj pou nanm lan ki te pèdi.”_ The foreign pronunciation cut through Daryl’s backwoods drawl like a butcher knife, his tongue twisting and forming words in ways Rick hadn’t heard before. And he wasn’t an expert, but that didn’t sound a lot like French, it had a different cadence to it, chopped and enunciated – like Daryl didn’t really speak it fluently. His arms tensed and shook a little, and a pained look crossed his face even with his eyes closed, and he took a split second to lean his forehead against his raised forearms, grimacing and pleading under his breath, “Veuillez me pardonner.” Taking one hand off the knife, and grabbing the snake to hold it in place, Daryl then sliced into the snake’s belly, drawing the knife down the length of its body from as far as he could reach to the left all the way to the right. 

It should have chilled him that the snake didn’t budge, didn’t fight, didn’t tense as Daryl cut into it. 

It should have scared the shit out of him that it was _somehow_ still holding onto his arm. 

But all Rick could focus on was how the blood from the snake fell from its body to splatter across Ryan’s corpse, and the crimson liquid vanished like dust before it could touch the ground. 

It was like the whole world was holding its breath, the blood just fucking vanished and everything fell very, _very_ still.

Then the bonfires caught flame, and the sound of the swamp rushed back to them.

“Lay her down on th’ Southr’n half, al’ng the edges,” Daryl instructed, pointing the bloodied knife to the half of the circle they had ignored most of the night. The python’s body lay along the entire curved Southern half of the circle, from burning East bonfire to West almost _exactly_ to the inch. And Rick was suddenly in awe of the perfection of the ritual, and how well Daryl had prepared it without so much as a ruler. 

“Grab the book.” Narrowed blue eyes looking at the one book Rick had really hoped he wouldn’t have to pick up, but he stepped over to it anyway, carefully lifting the heavy volume from the dirt. With a slight tremor to his hands, Rick passed over the black snakeskin book, fully aware that touching it was merely the beginning of the awful curses that could haunt him for the rest of his life. It was probably in his head that his fingers had gone prickly and numb, like they had fallen asleep, but the phantom sensation still alarmed him.

Which is why he didn’t notice Daryl trying to get him to sit next to him. With a huff the redneck simply grabbed him after a minute of Rick examining his hands, pulling him down to the ground and physically maneuvering him until he was sitting beside him. In an exact position, apparently, just like the bowls and bonfires and lines of salt. Daryl took a hold of his shoulders and practically man-handled him until Rick was exactly how he wanted him. With a short nod of satisfaction, though none showed on his face, Daryl flipped through the book until he found the page needed and then shoved the whole thing into Rick’s arms. Grabbing his wrists to extend his forearms and propping the book against his chest. Rick blinked at the absurdity of it all, and only sat there for a second while Daryl went back to the bowls and body in front of him before a shocked look crossed his face like someone had slapped him.

Daryl was using him as a goddamn book stand.

Rick was insulted at first, a little incredulous and more than a tiny bit angry, but also a little impressed that Daryl found a way to keep him in one space and within his reach if something went wrong. Daryl hadn’t wanted him there in the first place after all. Manipulation seemed to be the name of the game that night. Though he told himself he knew better, Rick often forgot how _smart_ Daryl really was. 

As the bonfires continued to burn, the wind had picked up through the clearing, slipping through the trees and fluttering the leaves, mixing the sound with the glass and bone chimes that hung from their branches. It was ominous, and Rick couldn’t help but look around as Daryl continued to maneuver things throughout the circle, lighting different items on fire – amputated limbs, branches, leaves, salts that sparked and crackled like small fireworks – and the small circle started to fill with smoke. Being inside of it, Rick’s couldn’t tell until he noticed that the wind was circling them through the clearing that the hazy smoke was staying within the salt lines. 

He swore he could also hear voices.

Distant and carried by the wind, low and quiet whispers that didn’t quite form into actual words. He tried to pay attention, slow his breathing and calm his erratic heart to listen closer to whatever was being said. He hadn’t even known he spaced out until Daryl was snapping his fingers in his face.

“Stop list’nin’ to ‘em,” Daryl told him firmly. “Lwa are all ‘bout balance, so some o’ them spirits ‘re bad, they’r tryin’ ta call ta ya. Don’ list’n.” Rick nodded his understanding, swallowing back his nerves and trying to focus once again on what Daryl was doing. He couldn’t really help much, being pinned by the snakeskin book, but paying attention was more likely to keep him safe in this situation.

Slowly, quietly, Daryl started muttering under his breath, low-toned chants that were in the same language that wasn’t English and wasn’t French, painting lines and raising smoke, blessing the dead body of his friend and the python at the same time. Everything seemed to be blurring together, through the haze of smoke and flickering light of the bonfires and candles, the chorus of the trees and the chimes and the wind circling through the clearing. Rick glanced to his left to see Colby and Merle still watching, but they had started to back up from the _ve’ve_. 

Merle caught his glance, jutting his head back to the swamp, “Gonna hit the treeline,” he hollered over the sounds, which to Rick hadn’t sounded that loud. But the way Merle looked like he was shouting, it seemed like a hurricane was occurring on his end. “Lwa ‘re circlin’, gotta stay outta the way. Else we gonna have a whole diff’rn’t probl’m.” He had grabbed Colby by the shoulder and dragged him with him, despite the other’s protests and craning reach to stay within sight of his little brother. Rick didn’t understand what would happen, but nodded all the same, trying to channel that inner strength that had been his groundwork most of the night. 

Blurs of shadows sped through the trees, causing Rick to jerk his head up, never quite seeing whatever was there but always just catching it out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t help the pounding of his heart in his ears, the fear that settled into his bones and put him back in fight or flight mode – which from where he was sitting fight was the only option. It made him clench his jaw and focus his line of sight, he felt a strong urge to see whatever was surrounding them. It was a primal instinct he had never felt before, but was acclimating to it almost too easily. Like he was born for it.

The numb, prickly feeling of his blood not making it all the way through his veins had spread from his hands and fingers all the way up his arms, as if the emotional weight of the book was too heavy for him to hold and it was crushing his circulation. He couldn’t even twitch the numb appendages to try and get the blood flowing again. 

It was all shadows and candlelight for the beginning of the ritual, and Rick watched how they moved across Daryl’s body as the other continued his ministrations. Shadows sliding and forming along his bare chest and arms, lining the muscles on his back and shoulders as he moved. The lines painted across his skin had dried in certain places and remained wet where sweat broke across his body, glistening in the firelight and painting him shades of red and orange. Rick didn’t know how long he stared, but his mind started to get away from him, the strength and hardened focus fading before he could get a grasp on it, fizzling and slipping through his fingers in this numbing sensation that oddly reminded him of how foam settled when you poured a can of soda. The sensations and sounds and colors all started to blend together, and Rick couldn’t tear his eyes away from Daryl’s body. The other was too distracted with the ritual to notice his state had changed.

It was as his mind wandered, hazy like the smoke that was as thick as fog around them, that images and thoughts that weren’t entirely his own started to surface. He had been focusing on the muscles on Daryl’s back as the other had leaned forward to do something out of his line of sight. Rick hadn’t moved an inch in so long he couldn’t remember, and the action had exposed his back once more so Rick’s eyes could trace the lines of the devils on his shoulder. At first he thought they were moving, the lines swaying from side to side as if the two demons were crawling across the other’s back. Then the light caught the beads of sweat that had formed along his spine, despite the scarred flesh that crossed the vertebrae back and forth like the strings of yarn on his father’s crime boards. His mouth physically _watered_ at the sight and Rick wanted nothing more than to _taste_ that salt on his skin, drag his tongue along the inked lines and raised wounds, breathing Daryl in and holding him there so he’d never lose him again. He imagined the salty sweat sticking to his lips, the smell of smoke and engine oil and _Daryl_ filling his senses and sending fire shooting through his chest and down to pool in his stomach. And then lower. He had a brief thought of _other_ things that would taste salty on his tongue from Daryl’s body before a stuttered moan escaped him with his breath, like he had been punched in the stomach. The arousal that had set fire to his skin and muscles and nerve endings was so overwhelming it was numbing, and he couldn’t feel anything but the _want_ coursing through him and over him in powerful waves. 

The bonfires burned red against his skin, as red as the blush that Rick imagined would paint Daryl’s face and could crawl down his neck and chest as he heaved for breath, squirming and writhing in pleasure. As red as _blood_ , and suddenly images of how the blood might have stained the floor at the Isaacs house – screaming animals, hacking and sawing and bits of bloodied fur and feathers sticking to the concrete – filled his mind before he could stop it. The screams of animals turned to screams of people, of a familiar voice in particular, and abruptly the red light that was slicked across Daryl’s skin looked like trails of blood, his skin flayed open and swollen and his back heaved with pained breath and wrecked sobs. Wrecked sobs that twisted and turned in Rick’s ears until they became a _different_ kind of wrecked that didn’t match the bleeding wounds, pleads to stop turning to pleads to _don’t stop_ and Rick wanted to _move_ and _get away_ from whatever he was seeing but he _couldn’t_. 

_“Rick!”_ He couldn’t tell if Daryl was screaming in pain or if he was screaming in ecstasy, and the blind panic that was tearing through his chest and lungs was so _painful_ Rick felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest. He couldn’t _breathe_ , he wanted to _cry_ and _SCREAM_ and MAKE IT STOP. But everything was too much, too much noise, too much feeling, too much _heat_ , so much every inch of him felt numb and his mind was _burning_.

“RICK!” There was burning blue eyes, pale like the early morning sky, stretching for miles and it was such a contrast to the shadows and red blood and fire that it _hurt_ to look at. He felt something hit his knees, something heavy, and like that his sense started to return to him slowly like sand pouring into an hour glass. He was moving back and forth, increasing in its intensity, because Daryl had _bruising_ grips on his shoulders and was shaking him for all he was worth. It left pain shooting up his neck and down his spine, and his arms and legs felt like thousands of pins and needles were being stabbed into him over and over, making him gasp in shock. His parted lips could taste the salt he had imagined licking off of Daryl’s skin, and he thought for a moment he could taste the blood as well. But the salt was wet, catching on the skin of his lips, and that was when he realized he had been _crying_. And he was shaking, and he was hard in his jeans, and he was fucking _terrified_ and everything was too much. He finally closed his eyes against _everything_ and shot forward, curling in on himself and touching his forehead to his knees, hiding both himself and his body’s reaction from his friend. He had dropped the book to the ground, that was what had hit his knees and brought everything rushing back. “Rick, ya gotta sit up, snap out of it!” But Rick was just shaking his head, squeezing himself tightly and trying to bring back normal sensations to his body. 

He didn’t know what just happened.

“What happened?” he managed to gasp out against the fabric of his jeans. Daryl’s hands were like brands on his shoulders, and he was so unsure about everything. He decided he _really_ didn’t want the other touching him in that moment, but couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“They didn’ acc’pt the snake,” Daryl told him, trying to get him to sit up still, and once Rick thought he was calmed down enough he complied, wiping at his face with jerky movements. “They want’d you instead.” Rick’s eyes snapped up to Daryl’s, knowing he wasn’t lying but still searching the other’s face in disbelief. 

“Me?” he asked a little breathless.

Daryl nodded, looking like he was trying to shrug it off but something was keeping him from doing so. “Think they knew ya mean’ more ta me than she did.” Rick was having difficulty swallowing, or breathing, his heart had become lodged in his throat again. “Askin’ fer this, they feel like they can take whatev’r they wan’ as an off’ring, whatev’r has the mos’ value ta me.” The redneck shook his head, but didn’t break contact with his friend. “I didn’t let’em.” Rick couldn’t tell if his eyes were watering because of the smoke or because this heart was literally being ripped from his chest – God he was such a dick. Making Daryl bring him here, keep him here because he was too selfish to let him do this alone. His eyes skittered around, taking in the slumped, exhausted look Daryl’s shoulders had now that he had Rick conscious again. 

“Did – did it not work then?” had he ruined it because he had insisted on being there to help? _Fuck_ , guilt wracked his body and panic started to rush through his veins like adrenaline. Why did he always fuck things up? 

Daryl didn’t answer him, because they both caught sight of movement outside the circle. Merle was screaming at them, waving his arms like a madman, but no sound reached their ears. Colby was shouting too, pointing and hollering with his hands around his mouth as if to funnel the sound to them. They both kept pointing at Ryan.

Ryan’s body was right where it had been the entire time, lines painted across his face and arms and hands, his chest and legs on top of his clothes, nothing out of place except for his lips were now parted – and he was drawing slow, shallow breaths. 

A dangerous, steady, calm settled into the two young men, still sat on the ground and now not taking their eyes off of the man beside them. There had been no big gasp, like Rick had pictured, no dramatic heave of breath as he shot forward like in the movies. Just the struggle to drag air into his lungs and back out, guttural and stuttered as if there was still blood blocking his throat. Rick leaned closer, reaching a hand to gently nudge at the older man’s shoulder, and watched as creases formed around his eyes. Ryan winced against the firelight, but slowly blinked open his eyes, the whites bloodshot bright red and the pupils almost nonexistent. He tried to move his hands from his chest, but the jerking of his stiff muscles were sluggish and confused, his face carefully blank accept for the slight puzzlement of why his limbs weren’t cooperating.

And his body was giving off heat like a furnace.

“Is he supposed ta be this hot?” Rick asked Daryl, chancing a glance at his friend, who was watching Ryan closely, barely blinking and calculating his condition. He felt like rolling his eyes but just huffed a bit, and turned back to the prone body, raising a hand to wave his fingers in front of the other’s face. “Ryan?” Rick tried, keeping his voice clear and calm, but loud enough to hear. “Can you hear me?” Ryan’s bloodshot eyes followed his hand back and forth through the air, but he didn’t rise from the ground. “Why isn’t he responding? Ryan?” Rick could practically feel Daryl tense up in realization.

“He’s empty,” Daryl said, like that was a reason, and he turned and snatched the book off the ground once more, flipping through the pages in a panic.

“Empty?” Rick asked, and when he glanced back, he could see Merle still trying to get their attention. Why couldn’t they hear them? He was pointing towards the sky now, the treetops that surrounded them, to the shadows that were no longer just out of the peripheral.

“His body’s back bu’ his _soul_ ain’t,” Daryl ground out, he hadn’t looked up an noticed what was happening above them. “I didn’ miss anything- nothin’ should’a gone wrong-“

“Daryl,” Rick said quietly, firmly, making the redneck look up and then follow his line of sight. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Daryl swore, shifting the book back to the dirt and carefully rising to his knees, crouched in the mud and dirt and ready to stand. “Fuck som’thin’s wrong.”

“Shadow people,” Rick asked, fear stuck in his chest, but he kept it caged like an animal. Now was not the time, the flight part of that fight or flight response was quickly coming back to him.

“Worse,” Daryl answered, spinning as he tried to follow the many shadows darting about the clearing above their heads. “Shadows, Lwa, spirits o’ the dead, they know his body’s empty, it’s a chance ta come back ta this side. They’r gonna try and take it ‘fore he can make it back.” He watched how they tried to dive towards them and became repelled by something, still turning back and forth to see at all angles. “They can’ get in,” he muttered, though it was clear he wasn’t sure why.

“Would the ritual keep them out?” Like a forcefield.

“Nah, it should do the oppos’te,” Daryl muttered. “Only thin’ that can keep ‘em out is-“ He spun around, eyes ablaze and staring squarely at Rick. Or more precisely, at his chest. In one stride he was up in Rick’s space and ripping open the last few buttons on his shirt, revealing the glowing square leather pouch Rick never took off when he was in the woods. “Take it off,” he said, staring at how the _gris-gris_ glowed like a damn beacon. Rick did as he was told, tugging the chord around his neck past his messy curls. “Throw it outta the circle, I can’ touch it – only you can.” So Rick did, tossing the glowing pouch far out of the _ve’ve_ and like that something snapped. The smoke and wind that had been contained to the salt circle burst out like a balloon had popped, and every dark shadow came racing towards the three men in the center. 

“GET DOWN!” Merle was screaming, and Rick felt Daryl grab him and pull him to the dirt once more, half on top of Ryan and covering their heads with his arms. It was loud and rushing with screams and wind and unearthly things that Rick couldn’t describe, he had shut his eyes tightly and grit his teeth – preparing for the worst, when suddenly it was over.

The sounds of the forest had returned, quiet and distant but still there. All of the candles had been blown out, melted wax melding with the dust and dirt, save for five – two to the north, one south east, one south west and one furthest to the south. The bonfires had died as well. 

Rick and Daryl slowly rose from where they were crouched down, briefly catching Merle’s eye to let him know they were okay, while the oldest man held onto Colby who was trying his damnest to get into the circle now that it looked like everything was over. 

Rick wasn’t so sure. But he recognized the pentagram made out of candles, one for each point just like in his room, he sighed in relief and knelt down beside the man still on the ground. Ryan’s chest was heaving, breathing erratically as he got use to drawing air into his lungs again, and his eyes searched around him but didn’t focus on anything. 

“Ryan?” Rick asked again, in the same voice as before. “Are you alright? Can you hear me?” This time Ryan sat up, still looking around in wonder and awe and fear, his eyes wide and unblinking and searching, soaking in everything surrounding them. He looked dizzy, but comprehending, which was a good sign. “Do you remember who you are?” Rick asked, trying to recall the routine questions to ask a victim in an accident, it was the same basic principle here. But Ryan wasn’t answering, and the muscles in his face kept twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t remember _how_. 

Looking behind him in desperation, trying to motion with his eyes for Daryl to step closer and help somehow, he was surprised to see the redneck hadn’t moved an inch. He was still watching Ryan closely, eyes narrowed into slits, unblinking and untrusting, and not heeding Rick’s attempts to get his attention. With a sigh, Rick continued to try and get the attention of the _other_ person in the circle ignoring him. “Ryan? Do you know where you are?” he was trying to sound steady, authoritative but comforting just in case Ryan’s curious mood turned to panic. He honestly didn’t know what to expect, so he didn’t notice that the older man’s fumbling fingers had found something on the ground that didn’t belong to him.

He reached over to snap his fingers in Ryan’s face, much like Daryl had done to him moments before, hoping to direct his attention.

And he did.

There was something off about Ryan’s eyes, they were wider for sure, but they had this distant look to them like glass. As if he was hyper focused on every detail around him. He also didn’t look… himself. There was something about the over-eagerness, the horrifying twitch to his face like he _wanted_ to show how happy he was, so happy it was maniacal. So when Rick snapped his fingers in front of his face, Ryan’s head snapped to him in an instant, and Rick couldn’t believe the _focus_ of those dead brown eyes. They looked so _aware_ … but so very, very dead. Rick couldn’t tell you if it was that stare that made him freeze, Ryan’s head snapping over too quick to be human, or the hand that was suddenly wrapped around his throat. 

Either way, he couldn’t breathe.

Ryan’s eyes raked over his face and down his chest, following the lines painted across his skin, and the smile finally found its way onto his face, wide and hysterical and showing too many teeth. His tongue slid along the sharp edges from canine to molar, hungrily soaking in the sight of Rick on his knees struggling to breathe. He wasn’t even phased by Daryl, who had struck like a snake as soon as Ryan had a hold of Rick, suddenly there – in their space – one strong hand on Ryan’s wrist, keeping some of the pressure off of Rick’s neck, and the other on Ryan’s arm, nails digging deep into the skin from both points. He had braced himself on the ground and tried to yank on the other’s arm to release Rick, but all he did was hold him in place, all his strength not able to make the other move an inch. Ryan weighed all of 160 pounds dripping wet, there was no way he could match Daryl’s muscle _and_ Rick’s, who had also gotten a hold of Ryan’s wrist and was trying to keep him from crushing his throat. 

“Let’im go,” Daryl ground out through his teeth, pulling with all his might on Ryan’s arm, using one leg to maneuver his body weight, and the other to kick out at the other man. “ _RYAN_ , let’im _go!_ ” 

“You did a good job, Daryl,” Ryan told him, and the words made the air crackle with tension. Because Ryan was born and raised in a trailer park with his brother, and he may have finished school, but he – like everyone else down South – did _not_ speak that precisely or correctly. The accent stood out more than anything, clipped and careful and annunciated. “Prettied him up very nicely, but I’m fairly certain the spirits didn’t accept your pet as an offering. If dear Rick is to take her place, he _shouldn’t be breathing_.” And his hand tightened even more, Rick had been able to choke down shallow slivers of air before, but now his throat was completely closed off. 

Not able to move his neck, he let go of his hold on Ryan’s wrist and reached for _anything_ to use against the _thing_ that was in front of them. Finally finding a bowl with still smoldering bits of plant life burning within it, his fingers fumbled to pull it closer while Daryl started kicking and screaming at Ryan’s body. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF HIM!” With a flailed flick of his wrist Rick was able to get it close enough to grab the contents, pain shooting through the nerve endings in his fingers and palm from the burning embers, and he slammed everything in his hand onto Ryan’s arm and held it there. The screech Ryan let out didn’t sound human, but it let go and Rick shot back three feet, dragging Daryl with him and choking on air. Ryan was looking at his arm and laughing, examining the red marks of burned skin in fascination, and for some reason still not able to rise off the ground. “I said GET OUTTA him ya fuckin’ bitch!” Daryl scrambled to his feet from where Rick had dragged him, able to escape Rick’s weak attempts to keep him as far away from the thing in Ryan’s body as possible. He could barely manage to breathe, air slipping through in painful wheezes though his mouth was wide open panting for breath, so he wasn’t able to keep a hold on Daryl at the same time.

Merle and Colby were there before Daryl got back to Ryan, pinning him back to the ground with a few kicks and a good knock to the head from Merle’s expense. The thing just continued to _laugh_ , chest shaking with the force of it while Merle kept him pinned with a heavy boot to his ribcage. 

“We gotta summon Ryan, get ‘im ta take his body back fr’m this fucker,” Merle scoffed, kicking Ryan’s side again for emphasis, letting the spirit choke on its own laughter. 

“Oh, _OH!_ I know where he is!” The thing giggled, fumbling with something at his side but still unable to maneuver with Merle pinning him down. “I can hear him _screaming_.” His hand shot up a second time, swinging around faster than any of them could comprehend and burying Daryl’s bloodied hunting knife into Merle’s calf.

“MOTH’R _FUCKER!_ ” Merle screamed, collapsing to his knees and punching Ryan’s face on reflex, which the body took in stride, head snapping to the side as he yanked the knife out and prepared to stab a second time. 

“Get it away from him!” Daryl hollered, but they weren’t prepared for how fast the body could move, they weren’t ready for the quick and forceful push out from under Merle’s boot, sending Merle to the dirt and the knife slicing up Colby’s chest as he went. The twin fell to the ground as Ryan rolled up onto his knees, snagging Daryl by the loops on his jeans and yanking him to the ground as well, so his knees hit the dirt roughly and they were eye to eye. He wanted to see how wide the younger man’s blue eyes could get as his own hunting knife sunk into his side. 

“Should really thank you, Daryl,” it crooned in Daryl’s shocked face. “You did such a wonderful job. A beautiful ceremony, truthfully,” it spoke soothingly, all smiles and teeth and unblinking eyes. “This body is perfect, and the soul returned so faithfully, all I had to do was – hitch a ride,” it shrugged with a cheeky smile. “Such a shame I can’t keep you around, it is so useful to have someone competent to depend on.” It pouted, then with inhuman strength pulled him into a searing kiss, quick and violating and over within an instant. The breath had left Daryl when the knife pierced his skin, and he hadn’t been able to catch it since. The kiss didn’t help. The thing sighed in a huff through his nose, “Such a waste of a _perfectly_ good-“ Rick brought the giant hunk of black quartz down on Ryan’s head with all his might, ignoring the crunch of bone as it hit his skull and the blood that splattered his hands once more. Ryan’s body dropped like a sack of potatoes, leaving Daryl still on his knees now panting for breath and his whole form shaking, trembling hands hovering around the knife wound in his side. 

Rick more fell than kneeled beside his friend, kicking at Ryan’s body until it was out of reach. It still ached to breathe and his vision kept getting spotty, but he needed to make sure Daryl was okay. “Don’ take it out,” he managed to rasp out, his voice grainy and strained and it hurt to form words, like his throat was made of sandpaper. “Gotta – find yer shirt,” he started looking around for it, having to twist his whole body and his head to see straight.

“Stop talkin’ ya idiot,” Daryl panted, curving his spine to the side so he could see down his torso to where the knife was holding his wound closed. “Gonna ruin wha’s left’a yer throat.” He took the shirt when Rick offered it, sweat slicking his skin as he body shook from the endorphins and the pain. Rick watched him carefully pull the knife out with a quiet hiss of pain and then pushed the cloth hard against the bleeding gash, as smooth as Indian Jones switching a gold idol for a bag of sand.

“Both a’ya shut up,” Merle snapped irritably, having already tied off his calf with a makeshift tourniquet of cloth torn from the same pant leg. He had gotten to his feet after a small struggle and was sliding off his belt, no doubt about to hand it to his brother. It was clear on his face how haggard the older man was, worn thin and watching them closely as he had been all night. But it reflected on his face more than it should have how _young_ the two boys looked to him right now, on the ground bloodied and dazed from what just happened. The look was only there for a moment, but Rick would never forget it, and then Merle was shaking it off and directing his attention back to the prone body beside them – which was thankfully still alive. Rick didn’t think they could bring it back to life a second time. “The fuck’re we suppose’ta do now? Wha’ was that?”

“We gotta ge’ it outta him,” Daryl grumbled, still pressing hard on his side and trying to shift his feet from under him without causing any more damage. 

“You can’t-“ Rick started, or tried to start, but there was no way words were going to be spoken from his bruised throat, his neck felt like it was on fire, his heart beat throbbing through his skin. His words sounded more like whispers, except harder to understand. Thankfully he and Daryl never really needed to use words.

“I can,” Daryl scowled, snatching the belt his older brother had offered to him and then using it to tie his now soaked shirt to his side. “I’ll make it an’ther ten minutes. Let’s get it outta him and ge’ home.” The sky had started to turn lighter shades of grey, the sun just beyond the horizon waiting to peek over the trees. 

The exorcism was insanely simple in comparison to what they had just gone through. Banishing sticks set up around the circle, a slightly uneven pentagram that Merle had to make because Daryl couldn’t bend over, and some sage burned with cayenne and rosemary was all that was needed for the shadows to spring from Ryan’s body like scattering cockroaches.

A sickening realization filled him when Rick noticed the pentagram Merle had made was the _correct_ one, and the one that had been made before just out of candles had been _upside down_.

Fuck, he felt stupid for not noticing.

Colby’s injuries weren’t as bad as the Dixon brother’s, so he paid them no heed when he settled by his brother’s head, able to shoulder past the others feeble attempts to keep him away. Daryl seemed to fold, either knowing he wouldn’t win this battle or not caring because it wouldn’t interfere with the exorcism. Or the gaping wound in his side took all the fucks he had to give away. Honestly Rick was watching his friend as closely as he could, eyes always zeroing in on the dripping red bandage on his side that had trails of blood sliding down the exposed skin in small torrents. 

This time when Ryan awoke he gasped for air, choked on his unused muscles and curled in on himself, but the other men pulled him back a part until he was lying on his back again.

His skin was still overheated, hot to the touch and flushed with newly flowing blood, eyes red and glazed from fever, and he couldn’t seem to be able to breathe correctly. But he looked at all of them like he recognized them. Rick couldn’t ask any questions this time, and he had hoped his friend would follow his example, but Daryl wasn’t exactly speaking up to fill the silence, just watching him as he had done before. 

“Ya with us now?” Merle finally ended up asking after a few moments, still standing high above everyone else, pain making him irritable. Ryan nodded, and Colby couldn’t hold back the smile or the laugh, as much as it probably hurt him to do so, and he curled forward until he was touching his forehead against his brother’s. “Thank fuck,” Merle sighed, and Rick couldn’t agree more, too tired and dizzy to care as he leaned against Daryl’s sweat slicked shoulder. “Let’s get home.”

Everything got a little blurry after that.

He remembered helping Daryl into the car, he remembered the sun starting to peek through the tree branches and stretch across the sky, lightening it into soft purples and blues, he even remembered the steep incline that indicated they had arrived at the Dixon house once again.

After that the rest of the morning was a blank.

Rick woke up exhausted, aching, his skin and limbs and muscles heavy and weak, and a steady warmth soaking into every inch of him. He didn’t want to move, or be awake, and the soft light was enough that he could’ve easily fallen back asleep. Except he could hear another set of deep, ragged breaths, so he carefully blinked open his bleary eyes to the sight of dirty blonde hair and tan skin. Daryl was curled up beside him, inches from his face, so deep in sleep it was like his muscles were rooted to the ground. Rick was so happy he could feel the warm puff of breath escape the redneck’s lips against his chest, so elated if he had the strength he could’ve started crying. Because they made it, they were alive, it was well past morning and they were both breathing.

And Rick’s Mom was going to kill him.


	14. The Violet Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry for the long wait, I got so STUCK on this chapter I must have rewritten the whole thing five times. A big shout out to everyone who answered my pleas for help and motivation, all of my friends and family on facebook, my lovely beta The_Royal_Gourd, and spot_of_bother on tumblr for her kind words as well. 
> 
> Also life happened, two weddings, cross-country road trip, WORK, the usual, and a new plot bunny that would NOT leave me alone so I started writing it. I did do a Rickyl week collection of one-shots as well that swallowed up seven days of my time too. But yes, I apologize for the long wait. 
> 
> This chapter ended up being like... 60% fluff, and I didn't expect that to happen. I threw in a bunch of creepiness, and there will be more creepiness to come since I somehow avoided it, but for now this is a lovely break from all the torture and dead people and stuff. Some questions were answered in this chapter, but not as many as I had planned, so next chapter will explain more plot. 
> 
> For now, this is what I have, to however many of you are still reading this story. If you are, know that I appreciate every time you come back and pick up right where I left off despite my long and spread out updates. I love you all, thank you so much for your support, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait :)
> 
> Thanks again to my beta, The_Royal_Gourd for all her help. I added and changed a bunch of stuff so any left over mistakes are all mine. I hope you enjoy it.

Rick’s entire neck felt like it was on fire.

He had fallen back asleep after he had first woken beside Daryl that morning, which was such a bad idea – because Rick should have called his mother first thing, it had already been just after noon when he first roused from sleep. But the exhaustion of everything that had happened the day before had taken its toll on the teenagers, so they slept through most of the daylight hours. Until Rick had shifted in his sleep the _wrong_ way, and pain shot through every nerve-ending.

He woke to a sharp gasp, hoarse and painful sounding and too loud in the quiet room, and it took him a moment to realize the strangled sound was his own. Beside him Daryl scrambled upright, immediately regretting the movement, his face showed how much pain the wound in his stomach caused as it pulled on the home sown stitches. He held himself on shaking arms, one hand planted on either side of Rick’s head, even through the pain looking down at his friend in worry. 

It was then that Rick realized Daryl had been wrapped around him, and he was once again laying on the younger Dixon’s bed.

How did he always end up in Daryl’s bed?

“Wha’s wrong?” Daryl’s eyes still looked bleary with sleep, his hair a disheveled mess, and remnants of dried paint and mud were stuck to his skin in flaking pieces. He wasn’t wearing a shirt – fuck, why wasn’t he wearing a shirt?

Because it was hot as _hell_. The two were soaked in sweat, the mid-summer heat baking the small tin house and turning Daryl’s room into a toaster oven. They had kicked the sheets off the mattress sometime during the night instead of swimming in the damp cloth, and the bed itself was a cup of spilled water away from becoming a swimming pool. Daryl must have shed his shirt in his sleep to rival the heat. Rick, however, slept like a log and apparently decided death by heat stroke due to the Georgia summer and Daryl’s body heat was a perfectly fine way to go. His clothes were drenched, the damp fabric bunched and stuck to his skin leaving no part of him to the imagination, and his hair was damp and curling worse from the sticky humidity. 

Rick opened his mouth, fully intending to say he was fine – in hopes Daryl would just accept that answer in his drowsy state and slump back down to the mattress, panic subsided, and curl around him once more. He’d been wrapped up in Daryl’s strong arms all morning and hadn’t been conscious for it, and honestly felt a little robbed of the experience. But when he tried to speak, he was barely able to make a sound.

Daryl’s eyes focused then, and they zeroed in on Rick’s throat. Rick couldn’t see it, but Daryl’s hands were light and gentle as they softly lifted his chin higher from where he still lay on the bed, turning his head left and right to better examine the damage around his neck. Fuck, his Mom was going to be so pissed. 

“Bes’ not try’ta talk fer awhile,” Daryl murmured, catching Rick’s wide blue eyes, the older boy’s panic meeting the younger redneck’s regret. It must look really bad. Rick swallowed audibly, an unconscious attempt to clear the blockage that was actually the tissue being swollen with the bruising, the action forcing a wince to cross his face. He nodded in agreement after that. “It hurt real bad?” Daryl asked, eyes skittering to every point on his face; the bruising on his neck, the red in the whites of his eyes from the strangulation, his mouth where his lips were still parted and trying to draw breath into his deprived lungs. But Rick just shrugged, aiming for nonchalant, not wanting the other to keep worrying, but also – 

Because Daryl was _really_ close to his face. And his body was warm and heavy, and half on top of him, and Rick didn’t want to get out of bed. Didn’t want to leave the cocoon of warmth, with Daryl pressed so close. Was too scared to leave this behind, because Daryl’s family was on the other side of that door down the hall, and they needed to discuss the horrible things that happened. Ask Ryan if he knew who did this to him. Make sure Ryan was still himself and not something resembling what caused so much damage the night before. Every little thing that itched at the back of his mind, even the ache in his neck that throbbed in time with his heartbeat, all faded away as every inch of Rick’s body became so _so_ aware of where he and Daryl were touching.

And he just couldn’t find it in himself to care about any of it.

So he shook his head no after a moment, smiled as best as he could while still being distracted by Daryl’s face in the faint glowing light of the shaded bedroom. All soft, warm shadows traced along smooth tan skin. Broad shoulders and sharp collar bones, light scars discoloring and raised in random patterns beneath the dried paint, arms locked to hold himself above Rick, and that chest – why wasn’t he wearing a shirt? He spent four fucking years refusing to take that damn shirt off in public but now he kept loosing it in Rick’s presence. His heart was going to beat out of his fucking chest at the sight. 

Daryl’s whole features softened at the smile Rick gave him, his own way of smiling back, and then he did _just_ what Rick wanted. He let his arms give out, slumped back down to the mattress, not caring he was on top of the other boy, and settled heavy and warm back into a light doze, nuzzling at Rick’s dark curls absent-mindedly. It should have made it hard to breathe, but Rick let out the biggest sigh in contentment, let his arms settle around the other’s middle in a loose embrace, and decided he could die happy right then and there. Everything outside that room was so fucked up, just waiting for them to rise and meet it with the day, but in that moment all Rick could focus on was how utterly perfect the world seemed to be when laying in Daryl Dixon’s bed. 

\--

It was late afternoon when they finally got themselves on their feet, and Rick found himself still in a daze sitting across from Daryl at the flimsy kitchen table – watching the younger Dixon tear apart a rabbit and methodically rip meat from its bones for stew. It was fascinating and disturbing at the same time. But from the way Daryl was doing it with his eyes glazed over, obviously far away and thinking of something deeply, Rick knew he probably could’ve skinned and dressed that rabbit in his sleep. 

Merle wasn’t awake yet, and Old Man Dixon still hadn’t returned home from the previous night. But Daryl insisted that was normal, preferred even. It gave the whole house a breath of ease about it, a chance for its occupants to let their guard down, which with the wounds they had it was a blessing they were taking full advantage of. 

Especially with the freshly risen twin in the living room. 

Rick and Daryl were both weary about being around Ryan, remnants of the violence his body had caused the night before still fresh in their minds and marring their skin. Rick couldn’t speak for Daryl, who had skirted the room along the wall on the way to the kitchen, not even looking in his direction. Rick had lingered a second, waved to Ryan since he was still unable to speak a word, before rushing after the younger Dixon. The twins had settled on the couch, but only Colby was asleep, Ryan wide awake and staring at nothing until the two teenagers had emerged from Daryl’s room. He had the courtesy to nod and attempt a smile at Rick’s greeting, but that was the closest to comfort he could offer. He was incredibly still, sluggish in movement, and just looking at him gave Rick this uneasy feeling of _wrongness_. He wondered if Ryan felt it too, and that was why he looked so sad and lost. He knew Daryl felt it, since he couldn’t even look at the twin.

The two younger men silently decided to stay in the kitchen to avoid any interaction with the twins. Hopefully Merle’s over-bearing personality would make a good buffer when he woke up.

So until then, Rick spent a lot of time staring at Daryl’s face, and absently thinking about how much he should probably call his Mother.

Daryl was actually pretty pale, and looked utterly exhausted despite the ten hours of sleep they just got. His blue eyes were bloodshot, dark circles surrounding his glazed eyes, and despite how much his hands were moving, Rick could see he was fumbling as he worked. A slight tremor to his movements. He needed more sleep, and water probably – before he even realized he had done it, Rick had gotten up and taken an old coffee mug from the cabinets with no doors and filled it with water. Set it down in front of his friend, and resumed his place to creepily stare at the other in silence. 

God they were weird.

“Jesus,” Merle said, sucking in a breath as he seethed in groggy exclamation. He had stopped dead in his tracks in the entryway, fell against the wall and stared openly at Rick and the bruising on his neck. “Ya look lik’ ya tri’d ta hang yerself.” He scrubbed a hand down his face roughly, groaning into his palm. “Can’ send ya home lookin’ like tha’, yer folks’ll sick the cops on us.” Rick shrugged in response, because – yeah, probably. “ _Fuck_.” The older man pushed himself off the doorframe and stumbled to the fridge, looking jut as exhausted as Rick felt, snagging a beer from the door and opening it with one hand. Rick could barely contain the huff of laughter even though he ended up choking on it, comparing the scene to when his Mother awoke in the mornings and stumbled through the kitchen in search of coffee. It said something about Rick’s relationship with the Dixon family that he only smiled a little at the sight of Merle chugging a beer after just waking up. Daryl’s mouth quirked a little too, his eyes cut to his brother for a second without his hands stopping, fingers slick with thin blood and grease from the meat. 

“So wha’ we gonna do?” Merle asked after he had downed most of the canned beer. “Go’ any ideas to tell his Momma tha’ won’ send my sorry ass back’ta jail?”

Daryl sucked a breath between his teeth, looking lightly pained but so one hundred percent solemn and serious that Rick almost believed him. “Damn, nope. Gues’ I’ll hav’ta throw yer ass und’r the bus.”

“Suck m’dick, it’s yer turn,” Merle grinned, saluting him with one finger. “’m too pretty ta go ba’k so soon.”

“I can mess yer face up if’n it’ll make ya feel bett’r,” Daryl offered, sharp teeth and a glint in the slant of his cat-like eyes. 

“Ya bes’ start pickin’ a plan B, baby bro, ‘r else _you_ can tak’ the fall on th’s one,” Merle barreled on. “Jus’ say ya got a little rough wi’him whil’ ya-“

“Fuckin’ shit Merle, shut up,” Daryl seethed, Merle’s lewd gestures causing both teenagers to glare at him and turn a little red. To Rick it wasn’t even fair, they hadn’t _done_ anything yet! “Could jus’ say it was Pa?”

“Pffft,” Merle scoffed. “Lik’ that’ll work. C’mon, take one fer the team. They’ll just _love_ ya in prison,” he continued to tease, though he looked thoughtful for a second at the prospect of getting his Father locked up for a bit. Daryl just glowered at his brother in response. Rick was wondering why _anyone_ had to go to jail over him, he wasn’t some damn girl that was gonna send his parents on a witch hunt through town to find his assailant. He was a fucking teenage boy, teenagers did stupid stuff all the time, ‘boys will be boys’ and all that dumb shit that Rick never understood as an excuse for guys to act like idiots. 

He leaned forward and snapped his fingers in Daryl’s face to get his friend’s attention, clear blue eyes stark and bright in the muted, run-down kitchen, making Daryl zero in on them quickly. Rick jutted his head towards the window, indicating the swamp that lay just beyond the paned glass. Daryl looked thoughtful once he understood what Rick was pointing out, and worried his lip as he mulled it over. “I gues’ that’ll work,” he finally added. “Yer Momma knows yer clumsy as fuck, enough ta clos’line yerself in the woods at night.” Rick’s mouth dropped open in protest, an astonished and angry look clouding his face, while Daryl just smirked to himself and nodded at his own deductions. “Make it yer own damn fault, yeah tha’ll work.”

Before he could stop himself Rick had snagged a shredded piece of rabbit meat and chucked it right in Daryl’s face, the small bite bouncing off his nose and leaving the most _bewildered_ look on the other’s face. And Merle howled with laughter.

“Don’ think yer girlfriend lik’d tha’ too much.”

“Shut _up_ , Merle!” Daryl shouted, while throwing one of the rib bones near his hand at Rick in retaliation. But Rick caught it midair and tossed it back within a second, eyes still focused and unblinking and intense, all retribution and challenge glowering within the blue depths.

“Whoooo, quick littl’ fuck,” Merle chuckled in mirth, while Daryl looked a mix of surprised and delighted, pale blue eyes locked in playful challenge with Rick’s clear blue ones. But then Merle noticed the look in their eyes, the way their muscles were tensed and fingers inching to grab whatever was close, about to fire like an old Western movie, and the little quirk to his brother’s mouth that usually wasn’t there. This was about to turn into an all out food fight. “Hey now, we gotta eat tha’ shit!” he chided. “Don’ go throwin’ it on the walls ‘r nothin’, ‘m fucking starvin’,” he grumbled around the lip of his beer can, downing the last of it. He didn’t want to deal with any of their stupid teenage shit today, or whatever they had going on that he was full on ignoring with a vengeance. Merle sighed at the last gulp, wiping his mouth the back of his hand before pointing at his little brother. “Call his Mom,” he instructed. “Temp’n fate as is.”

“Hun’ fer rabbits, make the stew, ain’ yer damn housewife,” Daryl muttered darkly, scowling deep and bristling around the edges like an angry cat, making Rick smile though he tried to hide it behind his hand. Daryl caught him, of course, narrowing his eyes at his friend as he slowly resumed his work on the rabbit.

“Hey!” Merle shouted, snapping both boys out of their daze. “I mean’ now!”

“Ya wan’ yer damn breakfas’ or fer me ta make a phone call?!”

“Ain’ no reason ya can’ do both.” It was then Merle’s turn to get rabbit meat thrown in his face.

\--

“I ain’ so good at talkin’ on the phone,” Daryl murmured quietly, hands shoved deep in his jean pockets but with his arms locked nervously, making his broad shoulders hunch as he looked more towards the ground that at Rick. It was endearing, but Rick rolled his eyes instead of staring at the distracting angles of his friend’s body, giving him a look that basically said _tough shit_ before he plucked the phone off where it hung on the wall. “Wai’t – wha’ am I sayin’ again?” Rick’s whole head rolled this time, all the way to the ceiling in exaggerated exasperation before he leveled his gaze at the redneck. Because _really?_ The whole reason that Daryl was doing this was because Rick was unable to speak, he was limited to yes or no answers. He pointed to his neck, and then out the kitchen window to the swamp. And tried really REALLY hard to telepathically send words into Daryl’s brain, which obviously didn’t work. 

Daryl was looking more and more dejected as the seconds ticked by.

“Maybe Merle can jus’ do it?”

_Oh hell no._

Rick whirled around and punched in the number for his grandparents’ house before Daryl could protest further, and extended his hand with the receiver towards the redneck expectantly. It was kind of comical how he eyed it like it was a poisonous spider, chewing on his thumbnail nervously. Both could hear the dial tone ringing, so Rick sighed and gently took Daryl’s hand away from his mouth before the familiar voice of Rick’s Mother echoed from the phone. “Hello, Grimes residence.” Then he quite promptly shoved the receiver by Daryl’s ear, the other scrambling to catch it before Rick accidentally clocked him in the face with it. 

“H-Hey. H-Hello Mrs. Grimes,” Daryl stammered out, eyes as wide as Rick had seen them in a while in the daylight, also looking really lost and Rick almost felt bad. Almost. “Thi’s Daryl – Dixon. Daryl Dixon.” Rick was grinning like a loon, trying to hide his smile behind his fist as he leaned against the wall and watched his friend flounder. His smile only seemed to be making everything worse. “Ye…. Yeah, he’s here. No, no he can’ – see… um, he had a little acciden’ in the woods las’ night.” Shit that was the wrong thing to say, Rick’s eyes were wide and trying to convey any help he could but Daryl was having issues having two conversations at once. “No! No, he’s fine now! He’s okay-“ Daryl looked straight at him begging for help, so Rick tried to gesture to keep going. _Fucking explain what happened!_ “No, he – uh, he got caugh’up on a damn vine in the swamp. Yeah, close-lin’d and fell flat on his back.” He looked around, as if trying to find someone to hand the phone to, but like hell Rick was letting him hand it off, even though he knew his Mom was probably freaking out on the end of the line. “N-No ma’m. Nah, didn’ hit his head or nothin’, neck go’ a little mess’d up tho.” Rick grabbed Daryl by the shoulder and pointed towards his throat and opened his mouth. “Y-Ye-No, no he’s fine. Havin’ troubl’ talkin’ tho, t-that’s why he’s go’ me callin’.” God he sounded so miserable at that statement, what was worse was everything he was saying sounded so _rehearsed_. Stuttered and stoic and like lines from a bad soap opera. A bad Southern soap opera, by an actor who couldn’t remember the script. “Wha’-“ he paused and he got really still. “How’d he fall fla’ on his back and no’ hit his head?” Now he was staring at Rick, and Rick shook his head because nothing he did could translate into a way to help him. Instead he indicated to keep talking, make something up. “Jus’ talent’d I guess?”

Rick wanted to bury his face in his hands, because _holy fuck_ Daryl couldn’t lie for shit! He had a great poker face, could with-hold information like a fucking sphinx, but words seemed to be his weakness. _Wow_ he couldn’t lie at all, and Rick would’ve hidden under the damn floorboards if the redneck's red stained cheeks and embarrassed floundering wasn't so _damn_ endearing. Fucking cute even. Goddamnit. 

“Y-Yes. Yes. Yes m’am,” Daryl murmured, now not even looking up from the floor. “Ye-I’ll brin’ him home aft’r we eat. Yeah. Yes’m.” He stuttered to a halt, a faint echo of Rick’s Mother saying good-bye could be heard from the phone, and then Daryl appeared to have forgotten how to speak English. Because he didn’t answer, waited a few more seconds, and hung up the phone in panic. And Rick really did bury his face in his hands, because – _wow_. He knew Daryl lacked some social graces, but Jesus it had been a minute. When he looked up he could hardly contain himself, and the look that he shot his friend was incredulous and could be loosely translated to _talk much?_

“Shut up,” Daryl growled, defensive and still red from embarrassment, which forced a smile back on to Rick’s face. “Nev’r make me do tha’ again.” Rick could only smile wider, shit-eating but grateful, full of every teasing remark he wasn’t able to say. “Ya think it’s funny?” Daryl demanded, obviously not angry but playing at it. Rick shrugged, playful and ready to re-instigate the competitive atmosphere they had at the kitchen table. “I’ll show you funny,” Daryl growled but Rick was already trying to dart out of the kitchen, faster than Daryl with the other boy’s stomach injury and far out of his reach before he ran _right_ into Ryan in the doorway.

How he sneaked up on both of them, and how long he had been standing there, neither teenager knew. Ryan, who was too solid for how thin he was, too grounded for how little he weighed, and who’s skin had a little too much _give_ as if he was trying to absorb Rick where they were touching. The kitchen grew tense, silence suffocating in the too bright room, and from the table Merle heaved a deep sigh where he sat, throwing his head back and chugging the rest of his second beer.

“Guess it’s tim’ then.” 

Daryl got a hold of Rick by the shoulder, pulling him away from Ryan and Colby, who was looking over his brother’s shoulder at them – for once, weary and too quiet. The redneck brought Rick closer, across the room and away from the twins, the heat from his body a comfort after the wrongness of Ryan’s. 

Merle dragged over one of the metal kitchen chairs, scraping it along the beaten tile and setting it against the wall dramatically. Even in seriousness Merle couldn’t stop from putting on a show. “Have a seat, boy. Got lots ta talk ‘bout.”

\--

Ryan could vividly remember everything that had happened to him. From the weight of Daryl sitting on his chest, to the moment his abdomen split open and his insides spilled out. He described it in horrifying detail, long and drawn out and all in one solemn tone, starting from the moment he realized they were back at the Dixon house. Laying on the floor, Merle and Colby shouting, the older Dixon chucking furniture out the door to make room. And Rick was sure Merle regretted asking what Ryan remembered before the man was even done with his story. He was only halfway through the ritual Daryl tried to perform on the card table, remembering Old Man Dixon shouting at him though he couldn’t understand what he was saying, the intensity of the pain described in words Rick didn’t even know were in Ryan’s vocabulary when he was finally stopped. 

“Fine, fine, we ge’it,” Merle interrupted, face scrunched up in his weird mixture of discomfort and annoyance. Which – thank God, Rick knew he probably looked a little green, and Daryl was refusing to look at anyone. “Wha’ ‘bout before, in the truck. Ya know who did this to ya?” 

“Fuckin’ stop,” Colby hissed, arms crossed and whole body wound up as tight as a wire. “We was in the damn car wit’ him, nothin’ happened-“

“Shut up Colby,” the Dixon brothers chorused, Merle shouting much louder than Daryl but both glaring at him.

“I rememb’r voices,” Ryan continued. “’r one voice I guess, it was that guy – the one ya’ll hate so much.” He looked at his brother then, eyes still a little vacant and like he was looking through him. “We’r’ s’posed ta hate ‘im too, but I don’ rememb’r why.”

“Moreau?” Merle snapped. “Tha’ fuckin’ dark-skin, spid’r-worshipin’ asshole!?” When Ryan just nodded, Merle slammed his hands against the table, hard and loud and it echoed through the house. Rick didn’t miss how the violent motion made Daryl flinch, or how his friend clinched his jaw tight as he checked himself, and then looked right at Ryan for probably the first time that morning. “I _knew it!_ It _was_ Moreau, we were about ta head down there and teach tha’ damn nigg’r some lessons in mann’rs and – he fuckin’ stopped us!” 

“Wha’d he say?” Daryl asked. “’n the car.” 

Ryan shook his head slowly, eyes boring straight into Daryl’s from across the room. It was then Rick noticed, he hadn’t seen the man blink the entire time he’d been sitting there. “Coul’n und’rstan’ him. Too quie’, bits I caugh’ wer’n’t English – but” red veined whites surrounded the dead brown of Ryan’s eyes, and even as he tilted his head in careful thought, not a single human emotion crossed his face as he continued to stare unblinkingly at Daryl. “som’how I knew wha’ he meant. It was a curse.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Merle snapped, leaning against the table by where his brother sat, giving Daryl perfect reach to lash out and hit him to shut him up, all the while never breaking gaze with Ryan.

“Go on.”

“A warnin’, and I start’d seein’ things,” Ryan said. “Symbols on the floor, bones, fire. Somethin’ was burnin’.”

“It’s wha’ev’r they had on ya,” Daryl muttered, sounding helpless and resolved at the same time. He knew what it was, his whole body language screamed it – from the way he dragged his gaze to the floor, to how he leaned back from the hunched over position he’d been sitting in. Rick nudged him, giving him a questioningly look when those pale blue eyes met his. “Told ya voodoo dolls don’ work lik’ in the movies. Ain’ a real doll, jus’ somethin’ that belongs ta whoev’r yer cursin’, somethin’ person’l. Then ya burn it, an’ ya can do wha’ev’r ya want to them.” Rick knew his eyes were wide, he was more than a little scared that there was something in the world that could _do_ that, could take away your control. He had a lot of issues with control, and always wanting to keep hold of it, afraid that it would be snatched away. It’s what made him so protective of the ones close to him, so perceptive of his surroundings, and would one day give him the ability to step up and lead – because in the end, he didn’t really trust anyone else to handle any situation that could arise, too wary of other people’s lack of _control_. The only person he would ever really, truly trust to keep that control – was Daryl. 

“Yeah, anythin’. Like stab ya repeat’dly in the stomach,” Colby added, unhelpfully if Daryl’s glare was anything to go by.

“Well this is shitty,” Merle grumbled after the prolonged silence. “We actually hav’ta wait for the Old Man ta show up ‘fore we do a damn thing.” Everyone seemed to agree if the matching scowls on every man’s face were anything to go by, except for Ryan who was as emotionless as ever. 

“So wha’ do we do now?” Colby finally asked when no one made a move. 

“Pff,” Merle huffed before barking out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Get drunk, nothin’ else ta do.” Daryl shut his eyes and seemed to be trying to remember the meaning of patience, or contemplating homicide Rick wasn’t too sure. “Ya gonna make us tha’ stew now, Darylina? ‘M fucking starvin’, an we gots’ta feed yer girlfriend an’ get her on home.” Rick could literally see Daryl’s eye twitching despite the fact he had them closed, homicide was becoming more and more likely. 

Unfortunately, Rick’s stomach decided that was the perfect cue to start growling. 

Daryl’s eyes snapped open, and the look he sent Rick was both incredulous and accusing, because no matter how sheepish and sorry Rick tried to look it wasn’t going to stop Merle from commenting. “See now, ev’n yer boy-toys hungry, ya gonna let ‘im go without anythin’ like poor ole’ Merle? I see how it is, starvin’ the one’s ya love, keepin’ us aroun’ wit’ the promis’a food when really ya can’ be both’red ta-“ It was when Daryl silently snatched the hunting knife he’d been cutting up the rabbit with off the table that Merle started changing his tune, and Rick jumped up to help. “Hey, hey! I was jus-kiddin’ bro, ya can’ take a fuckin’ joke? Don’ make me knock ya down, ya know I will-“ Rick was sad to say he failed in intervening in the fight that broke out.

And that’s how Daryl popped his stitches the _first_ time.

And how the kitchen table was broken. 

\--

Evening had just begun to set, the sun still out but sitting low on the horizon, blocked by most of the trees in the Dixon lot and streaking colors across the sky like an abstract oil painting. Rick and Daryl slipped out the back door after eating the rabbit stew, which was a little chewy and gamey but Rick would have to admit was actually really good, and headed towards the back of the lot where the altar stood on the raised platform. Rick knew every inch of that altar, every item and leaf and symbol drawn in white chalk, every fur and skull and jagged piece glass, after all he had stared at it for countless days last summer. He even dreamed of it now, startled in surprise when he came across something in his everyday life that resembled a piece of it. He had started collecting said items back home, anything that had been a connection to the magik world that the Dixon’s lived in, anything to remind him of Daryl. 

They halted by the tree line, the chorus of cicadas and crickets a comforting background noise that soothed after the painful silence inside the Dixon house. Daryl was looking better now that he ate, a little more color to his skin, his eyes a little more focused – that and the fresh air must have helped a bit. He looked more relaxed outside, more at ease with himself, and Rick once again couldn’t help but stare at him. He got caught, just like last time, but all Daryl did was avert his eyes and huff through his nose in a deep sigh that softened his features. It was his way of smiling, Rick knew it really well, could see the slight upturn to his lips that most wouldn’t notice, and found himself smiling back. Shy and unsure, because he wasn’t sure where they stood after last night. After this morning. It was all very confusing and unfamiliar. 

“I can walk ya back, if ya want,” Daryl finally muttered quietly, looking just as unsure as Rick if not more. It was obvious he didn’t really know what he was doing, and that made Rick wonder if Daryl had ever had a girlfriend, and quickly deduced that probably no, he hadn’t. He felt a surge of something primal shoot through him, possessive and proud and jealous all at once, and he knew he was full on leering at the other boy, his lust about to take over every instinct he had. So he breathed deeply through his nose, and tried to calm himself – he didn’t want to scare the redneck off, this was uncharted territory for both of them. So he smiled, as softly as he could, and shook his head no. He could find his way back just fine, if his Mother had even a notion of how well her son could handle himself in the woods she wouldn’t have believed Daryl’s story for a second. 

The two teenagers were far enough back in the lot that it was down the slope from the house, and both the trees that littered the space and the altar blocked them in the dying light. Away from prying eyes. And Rick knew what he wanted, but _fuck_ he was nervous, he had never done this with a guy before and he didn’t know how it was supposed to work. What was okay and what wasn’t, hell he didn’t even know what Daryl and he _were_ , or what Daryl thought they were. All he wanted to do was not mess this up. He thought it would be easier than with girls, everything else had been easier, he didn’t have to check himself around Daryl. But still here he was – standing at the tree line and saying goodbye and not sure what to do except stare at his friend. 

God but he was so nice to stare at. 

Daryl met his eyes again, as he always did, as he always would, pale blue locked with Rick’s strikingly clear own. He spoke so many volumes in that gaze, so many wants and fears and questions and so much happiness and contentment that Rick couldn’t help but smile wider. Rick shifted his gaze to the house, double-checking the lot was still empty, before snapping back to Daryl’s playfully. Matched with the small smirk that had curled at his lips, Daryl had to know what he wanted. 

In his defense, Daryl did look a little startled when he realized Rick wanted a good night kiss, but he only looked over his shoulder once before he narrowed his eyes at his friend just as playfully. 

And then he stepped forward, this time into Rick’s space, muscles twitching and almost shaking in nervousness. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Rick’s lips, mouth pliant and accommodating and so much like coming home that Rick felt his knees go weak. He almost couldn’t breathe from the amount of emotion that was behind it, the amount of purpose. The kiss was short-lived, but Daryl had held it there long enough for Rick to try and follow his mouth when he pulled away. But it made something so close to a smile flutter across Daryl’s face that it was worth the floundering. 

They didn’t make any promises about when they would see each other, didn’t even really _say_ good-bye, since Rick wasn’t able. Without that verbal assistance it was really hard for Rick to pull himself away from Daryl’s orbit, and turn around and walk into the woods. It was the longest walk home he’d had in a long time, but he grinned like a damn crazy person the whole way there. 

A damn, love-sick crazy person. 

\--

Rick was anxious to return to the Dixon house. 

The next morning found him pacing the tree line, back and forth across the lawns of his grandparents’ estate, and his ever churning thoughts flying a million miles a minute. And no matter how much he berated himself, muttered under his breath to stop being stupid and telling himself that he was over-thinking everything, he couldn’t deny what was really keeping him on the Grimes family property. What was holding him back. He was second-guessing _everything_.

He was more so nervous about _when_ he could return, what might be too soon to go and see Daryl again. Rick had just spent the past year without the other teenager, putting him in the center of his thoughts and worries every day since he had disappeared the summer before. Then, he spent an entire 24 hours in the other’s presence, in Daryl’s space, breathing in the scent of the woods and damp earth and engine oil. Tasted cigarettes and something so fresh and addicting it had to be just _Daryl._

He had kissed Daryl.

Three _damn_ times.

And Daryl had kissed him back.

Twice.

God he was so stupid, why did he do that? He had no way of knowing that it would work out the way it did, so why did he risk it? He had even said he wouldn’t, wasn’t going to jeopardize everything he had thought he lost after just finding the redneck again. But _God_ , he wouldn’t have taken it back for anything. Rick couldn’t believe he had just _grabbed_ the other boy, he had practically crawled into his lap in the back of that pick-up truck. He had wanted to devour the redneck, and it was obvious that Daryl hadn’t kissed many people because he hadn’t really known what to do the two times Rick had tried. Hell, he was proud of Daryl for instigating the third time. But Rick wanted to teach him how, wanted to kiss him until they both couldn’t breathe, until their lips went numb from over-use. Wanted to touch every inch of him, learn every angle and muscle and scar, and then all he could think about was the heavy weight of Daryl warm and sleeping across him – cuddled up on the mattress on Daryl’s bedroom floor. 

So much had happened since Rick had gotten home from Atlanta the day before yesterday. Was it really only two days ago that everything started? It was. It was only two days ago in the early afternoon that he had run to Daryl’s as fast as his feet would carry him, and helped him climb out his bedroom window to escape the fight his brother and Pa were having. 

It was only that night that Ryan had died. And Rick had watched Ryan die, his hands had been coated in the man’s blood, he had heard his screams echo off the tin walls of the Dixon house. Rick had witnessed how the Dixon’s had turned to Daryl in their time of need, how the young redneck was _capable_ of doing something to help, had actually believed he could summon a spirit to help keep Ryan alive.

Then they had raised Ryan from the dead, the whole ritual a blur of nightmarish images and sensations that still made Rick’s skin crawl. He could still hear echoes of screams and moans in his ears, still taste his own tears on his tongue, feel the heat of the bonfires and the cold burn of Ryan’s fingers around his throat. 

Still had the bruises to prove it had been real. 

That had been an ordeal after he returned from the Dixons. Trying to convince his Mother that he was fine when he was barely able to speak a word. Eventually he gave in, let her fuss with tears blurring her eyes as she tried to breathe through her panic and anger. The last thing he wanted to do was give her any reason to think this had been anything other than an accident in the swamp, didn’t want her to forbid him from seeing Daryl. Didn’t want her blaming him. 

So without any protest Rick let his Mother fuss over the bruising on his neck, spreading medicines and cold packs on the sensitive skin, and let his grandmother make him drink these nasty herbal remedies meant to cure his lack of speech. Merle had told him to just drink hot tequila and honey, that’d it clear anything in his throat right up, like he had a cold or something. But after all the stuff his grandmother had shoved in his mouth on a giant silver spoon, Merle’s idea was sounding more and more appealing. He hadn’t been tired after sleeping all day with Daryl – in Daryl’s bed, _God_ – but he still retreated to his room when the rest of the house went to bed. Opened his bedroom door to reveal the pentagram of rock salt, melted candles in a circle on the floor, and everything that had happened hit him full force. 

It had been a day.

Daryl and him had been sitting across from each other, right here in his room, the day before just before dinner.

Exhausted, Rick had slid down to the floor with his back against the bed, staring at the mess of a ritual across the hardwood. He’d have to scrape the candlewax off, his Mother had probably already seen everything that morning when she came looking for him. She hadn’t said anything about it, and that made Rick wonder how much his family knew about the magik and spirits that seemed to be seeped into every corner of this small swamp town in Southern Georgia. He spent most of the night thinking about things, about Daryl, about the Dixon’s and what mess they had gotten into, about everything that surrounded him. And about how much the people that surrounded him were keeping from him.

He realized that no matter how many books he read growing up, or how observant and smart he was, he still knew very little about the world. It was a sobering and scary thought, it made him feel older than he was. And it kept him awake until the early hours of the morning, before he finally dozed off.

And that led him to his predicament now, pacing the grounds all along the South side of the estate, kicking at fallen branches and pulling the petals off fallen magnolias just to keep his hands busy. He wanted to go back to the Dixon house, but – what if it was too soon? What was too soon for this? He wanted to talk to Daryl, and his voice had partially returned although it still sounded too hoarse and became painful after a while. The bruises around his pale throat were more purple and green now, and Rick could faintly tell where Ryan’s fingers had been. He really hoped his Mother hadn’t noticed the shapes of the bruises, she had a hard time looking at them to start with. 

Fuck, he just wanted to know where he and Daryl stood. At least with all the girls Rick had dated, they were very specific about that. Labels and shit, expectations. It had been some time the night before, in the midst of all his other thoughts, that Rick realized he was comparing what he and Daryl had to all his relationships with the girls he had dated back in Kentucky. But Daryl wasn’t a girl, and shouldn’t be treated like one, there was no point trying to compare them or trying to decide who might be the girl in this situation (and Rick did admit it might be _him_ at one point) because _neither_ of them were girls. Why couldn’t he and Daryl dating be _just like_ them being friends? But with kissing and stuff? The redneck already meant the world to him, nothing really had to change, did it?

But what if Daryl expected something else?

Ugh, the whole thing was so frustrating, he just needed to go talk to Daryl. 

Also, he was worried about the redneck, and his family. Whatever they had gotten themselves into, it was sounding more and more like a declaration of war. And like hell Rick was going to let Daryl go through that on his own. 

It was with that thought that Rick finally broke into the forest, cutting through the bogs and using giant tree roots to skirt around the expansive still-standing water. Following the familiar path he knew like the back of his hand, from his grandparents’ estate all the way to the Dixon lot.

When he arrived the sun was hiding behind the clouds, the white and grey masses covering the blue sky in a thick blanket that stretched for miles, and the wind tousling the leaves as it weaved between the trees. Rick came out of the forest in the same place he always did, right beside the altar, and was surprised to see someone was already there. Daryl was crouched in front of the altar, rearranging bits and pieces it seemed, he had spread a lot of the intricate display around him on the splintered wood as he maneuvered the items within the small confined space. In fact, he was holding on to the white granulated stone Rick had left as an offering two days ago, inspecting it in the muted light of the afternoon. Rick only paused at the bottom of the steps for a moment, before climbing them swiftly and making his way towards his friend with his hands shoved deep in his pants pockets. 

“Re’decorating?” Rick asked, and winced at how his voice sounded like a cinder block being dragged across concrete, cutting through the serene sounds of the wind through the treetops and the glass chimes dancing against each other. Daryl’s head snapped around, he had obviously heard Rick approaching, but his wide eyes had everything to do with the sound of his voice.

“The hell ya tryin’ ta talk for?!” He exclaimed, straightening up and narrowing his eyes at the other.  
Rick opened his mouth to answer, but barely got an “I-“ out before Daryl interrupted him again.

“Stop,” he shushed, and it made Rick’s voice die in his throat, not that it wasn’t already doing that in the first place. “Ya gotta rest it ‘r yer not gonna heal, don’cha know nothin’?” Rick snapped his mouth shut in response, realizing he had just left it hanging open, and had the decency to at least look embarrassed that he wasn’t looking after himself. “Wha’ are ya doin back here?” Rick’s shoulders slumped, because now that Daryl was forbidding him from talking there really wasn’t much he could do to explain himself, and no way to talk about what had been driving him crazy. So he just sighed and stared at his friend (no, he wasn’t _pouting_ ), if they were going to continue this game then Daryl was going to have to get better at not asking intricate questions. 

Daryl narrowed his gaze even more, which always seems impossible until he did it, but eventually huffed and set the stone in his hand back on the altar. “Fine,” he muttered, looking around at the stuff surrounding his feet that still needed to be put back, and then back at Rick – who was still watching him with a partially annoyed expression. Daryl’s head tilted to the side, eyes sliding down to Rick’s neck, which was hard to see with his button-down shirt. “How’re yer neck?” Rick shrugged in response; it was fine, it didn’t hurt or anything, just looked really bad. Daryl stepped out of the small circle he’d made with the items, picking his way through until he was in front of Rick, and made the older teenager lift his head up so he could get a better look. “It’s healin’ up alrigh’, I got somethin’ tha’ might help tho.” Rick caught his eyes, captured the gaze and held it there, this was really how they spoke to each other, how they were able to read each other so easily. Daryl paused as he did, and swallowed a bit, knowing that if there was going to be any talking then it was going to be done by him. “Did… did ya come all the way ou’ jus’ ta see me?” Rick raised his eyebrows, _no, I wanted to come hang with Merle, who the hell else would I be here to see?_ Daryl seemed to read his expression loud and clear. “Fine, whatever, just checking.” It wasn’t like they didn’t see each other every damn day during their summers growing up, spending a year away from each other had set Daryl’s self-esteem back to square one it seemed. 

The younger boy turned and hopped off the platform, by-passing the stairs and started up towards the house, only stopping when he didn’t hear Rick do the same. “Ya comin’ or what?” He called, pivoting on the spot and squinting up at the other. Rick scowled, and pointedly took his time walking across the platform and down the steps before following in the rednecks footsteps, the slow pace making Daryl scowl at him. “Wha’ ya wanna come back here an’ see me for anyway? Ya ain’ sick o’ me yet?” Rick smiled so wide it bared his teeth, sending a cheeky grin Daryl’s direction and even winking at him for good measure as he passed the redneck and started making his own way towards the house.

He could hear Daryl huff at him, pick up his pace until they were side by side, and mutter under his breath, “Think we were movin’ in ta’geth’r.” Rick couldn’t laugh, it would got caught in his throat, making it sound more like a hick-up or like he was holding back a hairball. But he did roll his eyes, and shove Daryl’s shoulder with his own, knocking the Dixon off balance for a half a step. It broke whatever tension had been in the air between them, companionable silence and symmetry rushing back into place; it looked like Daryl didn’t know what this was either. And Rick was just fine with that, they could figure it out together. There didn’t need to be picnics or nights at the movies, holding hands or flowers or anything like that. There didn’t need to be expectations or labels or all the other complicated stuff that came with dating and being as smitten as the boys were over each other. They could just be themselves, and figure out the rest along the way.

He didn’t need to worry about how to date Daryl Dixon, if that’s what they wanted to do, because he had already loved him for a long time. So Rick saw no reason to change a damn thing.


	15. Edge of Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter happened totally by accident and wasn't in my original outline, but I'm pretty much in love with it and I hope you all will like it too. 
> 
> I've been told by A LOT of people that I needed to explain some stuff: the voodoo dolls, the thing that took over Ryan's body, exc. So I incorporated that in there, hopeuflly this answers a lot of your questions :) And I finally get into _zombies_ , with a few refrences to the show because I'm trash like that.
> 
> Also, I had a couple people approach me about the titles to my chapters, and yes - they are song titles. Music inspires me like 95% of the time, I have a HUGE playlist for this that's got about 200 songs on it, and it keeps growing as the boys get older and _feelings_ start happening. But I was talked into posting part of the playlist, I just did it today, if anyone is interested: [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/inspired-workaholic/southern-discomfort-vol-1) It's a LOT of soundtracks and fleetwood mac, and teenage angst. I also tossed in some pics from my inspiration folder for this story. (Might be some forshadowing in it too so, heads up there)
> 
> My beta The_Royal_Gourd is a treasure and did an impeccable job helping with this chapter, so a big shout out to her. I rewrote some stuff so if there's any mistakes those are all mine. Enjoy :)

The inside of the Dixon living room had all the air of a cemetery, reminiscent of a crypt if it weren’t so damn hot within the tin walls. There was an unsettling stillness to it, dusty and laced with the taste of dried bones and dead skin. It was within the dark stillness that Rick first noticed that Ryan no longer needed to breathe regularly, he could only seem to draw breath through his mouth, and it was slow, drawn out and raspy – as if he was still asleep. The problem was, Ryan never slept. Colby insisted he did, but they all knew he was lying.

Being dead, put to rest, was the final sleep a man would ever receive. It only made sense that Ryan wasn’t able to, being in the land of the living forcibly. Sleep would be too much like death for him, and he was denied that blessing – for how long, no one knew. Not even Nain’aine.

Daryl had tried to warn Colby that Ryan wouldn’t be the same, but no one had been prepared for how much, he was barely even a person anymore. Just a shell of the man who had been the younger of the Forbes twins, equipped with all his memories and residual feelings. His twin brother still meant _something_ to him, as did the Dixon family and the town and everything else that had been connected to his life. It all meant something, but Ryan didn’t know what, couldn’t find it in himself to _care_ about any of it, as if he was physically incapable. No, Ryan wasn’t the same at all, and Rick got to learn firsthand that summer what that actually meant.

Ryan didn’t sleep at night, so he lurked about the house and the Dixon property. In fact, after the first few days passed, it seemed to them that he got more active after the sun went down. It might’ve had something to do with the cool air against his always over-heated skin, but most of the time the man looked catatonic. Physically, he looked the same, no scars or marks remained in place of the open wounds that had littered his chest before he died. There were a few – distinct – differences to his mannerisms, though. He was much more still, moved slow and more sluggish, and his dark brown eyes were always vacant, unblinking, and it really creeped Rick out.

But he had to be kind, be the only one in the Dixon house with a solid head on his shoulders most days. He would ask Ryan the same routine questions every time he saw him, those first few days once his voice had returned to him, and was startled to find that Ryan’s answers were brutally honest. Intelligent even with his limited vocabulary, like his IQ had sky-rocketed. He was hyper aware of the smallest sounds, the faintest scents, blood in particular, and that made him so incredibly observant he caught on to the littlest nuances and changes before anyone else in the house. When Old Man Dixon finally reappeared after four days, Rick could hear him talking to Colby about the dried blood on his raw knuckles, the stench of vomit on his breath and beard, how he favored his left side so he must have gotten in another bar fight and _how coul’ja not see that, Col’?_ It was a lot to take in, the creature that was Ryan Forbes, even for the man himself. And everyone was dealing with it in their own way.

Colby took it all in stride, making it out to be as if nothing was wrong. Out right denying what was right in front of him.

Daryl was afraid of him, though he would never admit it. The shell of a man who use to be like family, and was now an unsettling abomination of nature, and he avoided him at all costs. 

Old Man Dixon, who after four days of radio silence was suddenly all up in everyone’s business, saw him as the Lwa’s freaking gift from the other side. A weapon – not a person – that could be used against Moreau, that he planned to utilize to the fullest of his ability.

And Merle just drank, a lot. Ignored the uncomfortable atmosphere the undead twin caused, and plotted against their soon to be ex-bootlegging partners.

Rick didn’t know how he felt about Ryan, but knew that he felt uneasy – and that was reason enough to be wary. Still he spent all his time with the Dixons, though he would spend time with his family at night, and spoke with Shane at Church on Sundays - but otherwise didn’t really see the other as often as he use to. He usually ended up at the Dixon house not long after the sun rose. On the days he would get there early enough in the mornings to see Ryan still wandering between the trees, it was like seeing a ghost. It never failed to spike his heartbeat, fear spreading in faint tendrils through his limbs until it numbed every nerve ending and made him hyper-focus on the other man - until Ryan noticed his presence. Ryan could probably tell that he put Rick on edge, full red alert when they were alone together, because he did his very best to prevent that from happening. On those mornings, he would see Rick, and then amble inside to sit beside his sleeping brother on the couch.

Because of this Rick and Daryl spent a lot of time out of the house, not that it was a hotspot for fun and enjoyable atmosphere now that Old Man Dixon had returned home from the four day bender he had been on. Or at least that was the popular theory. But also since Ryan had taken residence in the living room during the day – blocking the windows to help keep it darker, sitting so he could see all angles of the hallways and doors, but generally not doing anything but staring into space and watching if anyone walked by. Every now and then he would venture outside, like he had forgotten it was there and accessible to him. Only to realize he wasn’t really interested in the bright, vibrant world full of living things after all, and ended up returning to the dark Dixon house only a few moments later.

“Ya know what he reminds me of?” Rick muttered quietly one afternoon, leaning against the raised platform with nails and hammer in his hands, while Daryl attempted rearranging his handy-work – reinforcing the old structure.

“Tha’ red head’d step-child us hillbillys’re suppos’d ta have lock’d up in the basement?” Daryl answered, shifting some of the 2x4’s to better hold up the structure. He got one in a stubborn position, barely squeezed between the platform and the dusty ground, shoving it with his shoulder and a few hard punches until it was wedged in there. “Or’a vampire?”

“Somethang like that,” Rick laughed, grinning down at his friend. Daryl only tried to look up at him once, squinting in the harsh summer light, before he snagged some of the nails to hammer the board into place. “an’ also… a zombie.”

He had expected another witty remark in response to his statement, the clever redneck actually knew a lot of pop culture references despite the Dixon TV only working half the time, or with a blood sacrifice according to Merle. Rick wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not. But he didn’t expect Daryl to get as still as he did at his words.

“Ya know? _Night of the Living Dead_ and stuff like that?”

“Yeah,” Daryl answered non-committedly, slowing dropping his tools to the ground.

“What is it?” Rick asked, head tilted to the side and watching every twitch Daryl made as he thought long and hard about something. “What’s wrong?” Something had to be wrong.

“Nuthin’,” Daryl tried, standing up and stripping off his gloves. “Jus’ funny, zombie.”

“Yeah, but you ain’t laughin’,” Rick continued, narrowing his eyes at his friend. “Ya ain’t serious, right? He ain’t gonna eat yer brains or nothin’ while yer sleeping-“

“Don’ be stupid, course not,” Daryl scoffed, scowling deeper. “You an’ yer damn horror movies, they ain’t ev’r gonna get it right.”

“Yer tellin’ me there’s such thing as _zombies_?” Rick exclaimed with a snicker, a smile on his face because – bullshit. “There werewolves too? Wha’ about aliens? Or bigfoot?” he gasped, grabbing Daryl’s arm and spinning him around dramatically. “The swamp beast?”

“Man, shut up!” Daryl snapped, yanking himself out of Rick’s grip, but the older boy’s teasing lightened his mood a little. “None’a tha’ shit. Stop bein’ stupid.” He kicked at the structure’s new support beams, testing their durability, before grabbing everything he had dropped in the grass.

“Then stop getting all quiet and serious when I bring up _zombies_ ,” Rick shot back, following the redneck back towards the house. “I’m just sayin’, the way he wanders around and doesn’t do much, staring at nothing, he kinda acts like a zombie.”

“I know wha’ ya meant,” Daryl grumbled, stashing the few nails and hammer and gloves in the busted, wooden crates they used as a make-shift tool box against the back wall of the house. “Jus’ dumb, wha’ they think zombies are.”

“I thought zombies were a Christian thing?” Rick questioned as he helped Daryl store the rest of the spare bits of wood he had been using for the platform. “My teacher in elementary school use’ta tell us about this stuff at Halloween, sayin’ how back in the dark ages or some shit people use’ta think all the sounds and stuff ya made after you died meant the body was comin’ back to life.” The redneck hummed, but didn’t correct him. “Or maybe that was vampires, I don’t really rememb’r.”

“Zombie is from a’Afric’n word,” Daryl explained after Rick said his piece, the redneck wasn’t big on interrupting someone – even when they were wrong. “We use’it too, bu’ it don’ mean wha’ ya think it means.”

“Like the voodoo dolls?”

“Yeah.”

“I still don’t understand how that worked, by the way,” Rick chided.

“Shit yer needy, sho’ld I write ya a damn book?” Daryl glared with no heat.

“I might need one at this point,” Rick grinned, causing Daryl to huff in response.

“Fine,” he answered simply, and started walking back around the house.

“What?”

“I said fine, now c’mon!” Daryl called, causing Rick to pick up the pace until he was in step behind the redneck.

The two decided to forgo walking through the dark crypt of a living room, and instead skirted the outside of the house, making their way through the jungle of vines and other tendrils of the forest creeping up the sides of the tin walls until they reached Daryl’s bedroom. The window was always unlocked now, even though they were both far too old and too tall to be considering the splintering opening as an entrance or exit, but they tended to use it more than the front door. Rick was happy to say he had gotten much better on his landings as he pulled himself through the open window and into Daryl’s bedroom.

The teenager had really made the space his own in the past few weeks, since he had returned home. It wasn’t messy per say, like the rest of the Dixon house, but had a much more lived-in feel to it. It was over-flowing with borrowed books and candles and endless mason jars filled with dried plants and stones and dirt and everything else one could think of. He had runes and symbols craved into the doorways and window frames, painted on the walls, even scribbled in notebooks along with diagrams of _vévé_ and spells in both Haitian-French and English. It would have been a mess if not for the shelves Rick and Daryl had been building throughout the summer, now lining his walls and making it look less empty. His mattress was still on the floor in the corner but Daryl’s bedroom was starting to have _actual_ furniture now, rhyme and reason to the layout – and the redneck had done a good job organizing it as they went. It was like seeing the inside of Daryl’s mind, laid out within the space - filled with old books and foreign symbols and small motorcycle parts, grease slicked rags that still needed to be washed and partially carved bolts for his crossbow and half empty cigarette packs scattered wherever he could fit them, completed with bits of the forest tracked everywhere the eye could see. It was warm, earth toned from all the dirt and stone and dried plant, and always smelled of incense. Rick loved Daryl’s room.

Rick collapsed into his usual spot on Daryl’s bed, pulling off his mud-caked boots while the redneck tacked up the blanket covering the window to let more light into the room. Then he was crouched in front of one of the splintered and unpolished bookshelves, one of their first creations that probably wouldn’t last the year, and started picking through the books crammed in there. They’d have to build another one just to make room if he borrowed any more from Nain’aine. Rick was fairly certain the old woman was insisting he take the books home each time he visited, and telling him that she didn’t miss the ones he had already borrowed so he could keep them – both boys had caught on early that she was trying to transfer her extensive library into Daryl’s possession. But Rick knew better than to bring it up, he didn’t know what Daryl would do if Nain’e wasn’t there for him anymore, and he did break down and pray each Sunday at church that she would be with him long enough to get his feet under him. Daryl always mentioned he had so much more to learn, and that he didn’t know what he was doing half the time, even though Rick didn’t necessarily believe that. But Nain’e was old, older than Rick’s Grandmother or Grandpappy, and each time they saw her it was like the world was slowly whittling her away.

Jostling Rick from his thoughts, Daryl fell to the mattress as well with his hands full of books, dropping them to floor with a loud thunk. “Don’ got one book, bu’ these shoul’ help,” he muttered, picking up the first one and flipping through it expertly, like he’d read it a few times already. “Here,” he shoved the open thing into Rick’s hands and pointed to the top right page. “This part here’s ‘bout _Obeah_ , it’s a rel’gion like Voodou bu’ it’s from Jamaica. They worsh’p spiders like we do snakes, and here-” he pointed to the bottom of the page, “they talk abou’ their zombies. Like wha’ yer thinkin’ ‘bout, ‘cept they ain’t dead. Jus’ had their mind ‘n soul taken from’em, and the witch doct’r can control wha’s left.”

“That’s scary,” Rick murmured, his eyes reading through the text quickly, it was a text book about African and African-descent religions, with a good portion about the slave trade and how different sects were created when the African people were forced into every corner of the world. His eyes kept gravitating towards the word _curse_ , and as he turned the page the word _doll_ came into view too. “They got voodoo dolls?”

“Kinda,” Daryl answered, having picked up a new book and flipping through that one too. “It’s wha’ I think happn’d ta Ryan.”

“He was cursed,” Rick muttered, feeling that deep-rooted fear from childhood spark in his chest. But he kept reading. The curse was done by a powerful but dark priest, and required a piece of property that belongs to the person being cursed. It could be a keychain from their car keys, or a piece of jewelry they wore every day, and if you could get something _from_ their person – like hair or blood – then the spell would be even more powerful. Then, during the ritual, the property is burned, and the dark priest could do whatever they wanted to the cursed victim. Making them see things, hurting them physically, could even drown them or burn them alive. And then – the priest could either leave the property in the flames until it turned to ash and killed them, or pull it from the flames and spare their life.

“He was murder’d,” Daryl corrected, anger thinly veiled behind his calm exterior. Rick looked up then, trying to see Daryl’s face behind the curtain of his hair, but the redneck was carefully flicking through pages and books with his shoulders as tense as stone and jaw clenched tight. Rick leaned his shoulder against him purposefully, solid and comforting as he could be, also looking back at his book.

“Yes, he was,” he answered quietly.

Stacking another open book onto of the one in Rick’s hands, he pointed to the far left page this time, “this one’s ‘bout Haitian Voodou, and wha’ the word Zombie means. It’s kinda got four o’ them. There’s this one, _Lé Grand Zombi_ ,” he pointed to a depiction of a giant snake. “I ain’t never seen it, but it’s wh’n the Lwa can take ov’ra snake and speak from it, usu’lly a special snake. They make alt’rs and shit to ‘em. Then there’s the un-livin’ man, when ya trick a soul into comin’ back to its body. It’s cruel an’ only mean’ fer punishm’nt, cause the body is still decayin’.”

“Jesus,” Rick breathed, shivering at the unimaginable hell that would be.

“Las’ one in tha’ book is the Livin’ Man Zombie, which is’a poison, made from blowf’sh or some shit, and it hollows ya out so the priest can make ya their slave,” Daryl finished, trading off the stack of books in Rick’s hand for the open on in his. “And the las’ one is New Orleans Vodou, where _zombie_ refers ta the soul separated from the body. People use ta sell ‘em in jars fer good luck and good business and shit, Nain’e says that people coul’ sell their souls ta witch doct’rs fer favors from the Lwa.”

“So, zombie just means when the soul and body aren’t connected,” Rick said with a tilt of his head.

“Yeah, guess ya could say that.”

“But Ryan’s are, so he’s not a zombie.”

“No, he ain’t,” Daryl said, picking up the last book, and opening it carefully.

Rick was quiet for a moment, his eyes suddenly zeroed in on the book Daryl was holding, it wasn’t the spell book he had used the night that they brought Ryan back to life, but it was bound in grey and brown snakeskin. And once again, Daryl was touching it like it was nothing, and it was making Rick’s skin crawl. “But… he was, for a little bit, wasn’t he?” Daryl looked up at him questioningly. “Ya said he was empty, during the ritual, when his soul hadn’t come back yet.” Clarity filled his pale blue eyes, and he nodded after a little hesitance and deep thinking. “Was that how that – _thing_ – got into him?” Daryl nodded, snapping back to the book and flipping a few more pages, seeming to find what he wanted and started to hand the book off to Rick. But Rick shifted back a bit, leaning away from it, uneasy after his last encounter. _Don’t touch that snake skin, boy! It’ll curse ya!_

“It’s alrigh’,” Daryl said after a second more of Rick’s hesitation, “yer fine, took care o’ all tha’ a long time ago,” he said with a small tilt of his lips, his confidence soothing Rick’s worry. So he took the heavy thing from his friend, still alerted by the tingling in his fingers that skittered across his skin as soon as he touched the volume.

“It ain’t in English,” Rick pointed out, watching the looping curve of letters he recognized formed in a jumble of words that were absolute gibberish to him.

“I know, jus’ pointin’ ou’ the pictures,” Daryl answered, indicating the full page drawing in stark black ink. It was a bunch of small stars and lines, but as Daryl explained it the picture began to make sense. “This’s how the sep’ration of Lwa an’ realms of existence work. See, ta us, wh’n we die it’s lik’ a great transit’on from one life ta the next, we’re excit’d fer it. But it’s hard ta ge’ there, so we spend our whole lives makin’ good wit’ the Lwa ta help us, an’ also ta help us while we’re here. It’s a give an’ take, the Lwa are like smaller gods, spirits that live on Earth an’ are trapped here too. They miss the land’o the livin’, it’s why the alt’rs are full of parts of the livn’ world. We serve each oth’r. But, we also beli’ve in balance, so there’s both good an’ bad spirits stuck here, and we worship all o’ them. They go’ more respect cause of the realm they live in, but the bad ones – they’re tryin’ ta get back. The only way they can, is ta take ov’r someone’s body. Ta do that, their soul’s gotta be gone. Ryan’s was gone, so ev’rythin’ within’ reach was tryin’ ta get at ‘em.”

“What was it?” Rick asked, noting his voice had gotten quiet after all the information. “A demon?”

“We ain’t got demons, them Shadow People are the clos’est we got. But no, jus’ somethin’ bad, a spirit that want’d in, want’d ta live again.”

“It seemed really evil.”

“Could’a been, could’a been a serial kill’r fer all we know. We’ll prob’bly never see it again, not in this lif’time,” Daryl assured him, taking the book from Rick’s numb hands, Rick trying to ignore how his whole forearms felt like they were being stabbed with pins and needles as the blood started to flow freely through them again.

“But it knew our names,” Rick protested. “Knew everythang about us.”

“They’re dead,” Daryl answered with an indifferent face, “they always know ev’rythin’. All they do ‘s watch us.”

“So it won’ come back?” Rick asked one more time, he just needed to know, to be sure. He could still feel Ryan’s cold hands around his throat, remembered how it felt to have all air blocked off and his vision go blurry, could still see how wide Daryl’s blue eyes got when his own hunting knife sunk into his side.

Daryl shook his head of messy dirty-blonde hair, and locked those thin pale blue eyes on Rick once more. “No, y’ll nev’r see it again.”

\--

“Where we goin’?” Rick asked a few days later, trailing not too far behind the redneck through the dense swamp, weaving through the trees and around the bogs of still-standing water with practiced ease. His eyes kept tracing over the lines of the crossbow settled across the younger teenager’s back, showing how broad his shoulders were becoming as he continued to grow into a strong and steady frame. He had a bag slung over the same shoulder though Daryl refused to tell Rick what was in it, and had spent a lot of time not looking at the Kentucky boy throughout their trek through the woods.

“Y’ll see,” Daryl answered vaguely, still picking through the wild swampland carefully, the brush was becoming denser and more untamed the further they went, branches creating a thick ceiling of leaves and moss and twigs above them – and yet somehow the bright Georgia sunshine still caught in the strands of his shaggy dirty-blonde hair. Bright patterns sliding enticingly along his tan skin, and Rick was spending way too much time staring at his friend and not enough at where he was walking. He stumbled more than once, and had practically fallen flat on his face from high standing roots and low hanging branches multiple times. “If ya make it,” Daryl teased, catching Rick as he tripped once again and helping him back onto even footing.

“If ya weren’t taking me through the damn Amazon I’d have a better chance,” Rick grumbled back, taking the lead and skirting the edge of a large pond dusted in green moss and algae, using his arms to steady his balance as he walked along those same high standing tree roots that kept tripping him to make it to the other side. Daryl snorted in response, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, following Rick with all the grace of a cat crossing the top of a wooden fence.

“Th’nk yer doin’ fine,” Daryl assured quietly, gruff Southern drawl and bright pale eyes doing the craziest things to Rick’s heartbeat, stuttering in his chest so hard he could feel it against his rib cage. He did his very best to not focus on how alluring it was when Daryl stared at him in the bright summer sunlight. Narrowed blue eyes watching him, with such appreciative scrutiny that it made Rick dizzy with this intense affection , filling him with the need to be teasing and playfully flirty and other stupid things he’d never done before. He’d almost giggled a couple times as they snarked at each other back and forth through their walk through the swamp, carefully coughing over it into a more manly sounding snicker, but no matter what he couldn’t seem to stop _smiling_. 

By the bright spark in Daryl’s eyes, if he had been more use to it he would have been smiling too.

It was weird, the sensation of knowing you’re wanted, knowing that someone liked you just as much as you liked them. Even when he had dated girls back in Kentucky there was always that little voice that doubted whoever he was with, which was just a part of being a teenager, always thinking what if they decided they didn’t like him after all? What if they realized it was a mistake? What if I mess it up? With Daryl, those thoughts surfaced every now and then, mostly when he was back home and no longer in the other’s presence, but they never bothered him for long. Because whenever he was _with_ the redneck everything was so _easy_ , he became so blinded by the simplicity and the comfort, the joy and effortlessness of everything they did that all he could do was just bask in it. Enjoy Daryl just _being_ there, since for a long time he worried Daryl wouldn’t be. In all honesty they really didn’t need to do anything to make Rick beside himself with happiness, even though Daryl’s busy days were usually full of a long list of tasks and chores - they always seemed to have fun doing them. Which is what Rick thought they were doing now, just on another hunt for some herb or flower or animal for something that Daryl’s Pa needed done. So all the secrecy was confusing, but kind of exciting at the same time.

Whatever it was, it was pretty far into the swamp. They had started out a little later in the afternoon, Daryl coming to get him straight from the plantation house and leading him into the woods from there. Now the sun was starting to fall lower in the sky, casting soft shadows from the trees and turning the clouds shades of red and orange. Everything was still bright and warm, but the insects were starting to act up without the harsh heat of the day, chorusing between the trees and chirping loudly from the tall grass and brush encompassing their path.

“We got much further?” Rick asked, noticing the fading of the summer light, and trying to ignore the grumbling of his stomach. “’M starving.”

“Jus’ up here,” Daryl said, no snark this time, which had Rick looking up at him again instead of his feet. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought Daryl sounded _nervous_. Then he smelled it.

A soft, charcoal smell of firewood burning, and the delicious aromas of cooking meat. Daryl pushed his way through a tangle of vines and Spanish moss, holding up the mess of foliage so Rick could duck under and walk into the small clearing. It was much smaller than the ritual clearing, overgrown with tall grass that was littered with crickets and lightning bugs now that the sun had started to set. A black cast iron covering that looked like part of an old boiler was hovered over a pit of low burning coals, smoke faintly escaping out the sides.

Daryl made a beeline for the fire pit, dropping his bag and crossbow to the ground and snagging a red rag from his back pocket to help lift the cast iron covering, smoke billowing out the sides for a moment. Rick’s mouth was watering from the smell of the cooking meat, but he was too captivated by what was going on to let it distract him. He still wasn’t sure what they were doing, why would Daryl have to cook whatever it was way out here? Was it part of a ritual?

“Littl’ burn’t,” Daryl muttered, dropping the iron covering away from the fire, onto the dust covered ground that surrounded the stone fire pit. “It’ll do, grab the bag,” he instructed, nodding towards his pack as he shook his hand against the burning sting. Rick did so, unzipping it as he walked towards the redneck, but slowing to a stop when he saw what was inside. He looked up suddenly, clear blue eyes wide with surprise and a mixture of hope and doubt, because there was no way.

“Ya gonna jus’ stand ther’ ‘r hand me the damn plates?” Daryl asked, trying to hide the obvious blush behind his bangs and deflecting with an embarrassed snap of anger that didn’t hurt Rick one bit, just made him smile a little wider. “Rabbit’s ain’t gonna eat ‘emselves.” Rick dug into the bag, pulling out the paper plates – but also pulling out what had to be one of the blankets from Daryl’s bed at home.

“Daryl,” Rick started disbelievingly, but had to bite his lips to keep the damn smile from splitting his face in two, he didn’t want Daryl to think he was laughing at him. So he breathed through his nose, catching the other’s eyes as he stepped closer to him, “… is this a date?”

Daryl looked scared to death, and Rick could only imagine what the redneck was thinking, but he could hazard a guess – they hadn’t really talked about what they were, what they wanted to be. Hadn’t really done anything except kiss each other goodbye after hanging out all day, after flirting all day, shamelessly he might add. Because of that there really wasn’t too much clarity on what each boy wanted out of… whatever they had. This was the first real step either boy had made since Rick had grabbed Daryl in his brother’s pickup truck and kissed him senseless. Daryl had led him so deep into the woods no one would be able to stumble across them, for a _date_ , and from the bits of fur stuck to strands of grass around the fire pit he had even hunted for their meal before going to fetch Rick from his grandparents’ estate.

So when the redneck nodded hesitantly, not able to trust himself with speaking, Rick let the smile that had been tugging at his lips finally spread across his face, so wide he couldn’t drop it if he’d wanted to. He ducked his head and bit his lips to try and control himself, before giving up and grabbing Daryl by his sleeveless shirt and pulling him in for a kiss. A real kiss, not the small chaste ones they’d been sharing every evening for the past couple weeks, one that had his hands sliding up to bury in Daryl’s hair and hold him there, had Daryl’s own shaking hands grasping at his shirt around his waist. And the way Daryl kissed him back, unpracticed but melting into every angle of Rick’s frame, strong arms pulling him as close as possible, eager and nervous and blissed out of his mind and trying so _damn hard_ Rick couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his throat and breaking their kiss. For a moment, because Daryl only looked discouraged for a split-second before he was diving back in for another try.

“Dar-“ Rick tried to talk around Daryl’s attempts, but all that did was make the redneck falter for a moment, pale blue eyes blown out black and taking in every inch of Rick’s face like he was memorizing it, as if Rick was about to push him away. But when he realized Rick just needed to say something, he left his lips alone, and couldn’t seem to stop himself from trailing quick kisses from the corner of Rick’s lips towards his throat. “Mmm,” damn that felt good, “much as I want this ta be the whole date, that smells _real_ good, an’ my stomach’s gonna eat me alive,” Rick tried to say, huffing breathless laughs as Daryl just continued to distract him with soft presses of lips to the skin along his jaw. They were nervous movements, still a little unsure, but laced with little bursts of bravery that managed to break through his self-consciousness. Short, peppered kisses turning longer, open-mouthed and hot, tasting the skin and making Rick shiver where he stood.

With each passing moment Daryl was becoming more comfortable, confident enough for his hands to slide as hot as brands over Rick’s sides and up his spine, exploring and pressing close and tasting every inch and curve of Rick’s neck. And Rick… well he was running out of reasons to get Daryl’s attention on their probably burnt meal. Couldn’t help the little gasps and sighs that slipped past his parted lips, panting for breath and tilting his head back to give Daryl more room and – damn he was really good at that. 

It wasn’t until Daryl shifted his weight to better reach the taller boy’s neck, dragging his teeth lightly over the skin beneath his ear, that Rick was jolted into action. And the shift had rolled Daryl’s hips into Rick’s own, all instinct and involuntary on his part, but the action punched a groan out of the older boy, low and wanting. _Fuck._

Rick’s fingers had been threaded through the strands of Daryl’s unruly hair, clenching tighter as the redneck started to lick and kiss at his neck – _just like he’d imagined he would_. And he used that leverage to tear him away from his work of pressing bruises into the pale skin and crashed their lips together again, angling his head so they slotted together perfectly, but before he could dive into the insanely _delicious_ taste of Daryl Dixon they were interrupted.

His fucking stomach growled. Loudly.

Daryl must have _felt_ it with how close Rick was pressed. A huff of true blue laughter burst out of Daryl before he could stop himself, and Rick was as red as Merle’s rusted pickup truck.

“I said I was hungry,” Rick grumbled, embarrassed as all get out but refusing to move away from Daryl’s warmth.

“I know ya did,” Daryl answered, and the warmth in his voice matched the warmth of his skin so much it soothed the mortification Rick was feeling. So he leaned forward and pressed one more soft kiss to the redneck’s mouth, before letting him fetch their meal from the low burning coals.

\--

One would have thought with how much time Rick spent with Daryl Dixon, which was pretty much almost _every waking minute_ of the day, that they would have nothing to talk about. Which would have been fine, even if they hadn’t, the companionable silence they often fell into didn’t require any words to make it feel complete – ever since they had first met, they bonded _through_ that silence, so it would have been perfectly okay without conversation. But they _did_ have things to talk about, and it went on until it was so dark they could make out the stars in the night sky above them.

Rick had tried to start it, asking Daryl if he was ever going to finish his story about where he’d been. They had never talked about Florida, but Daryl insisted that they always talked about him – and tonight he wanted to hear about Rick. So the older boy told him all that he could.

How he and his Mother were holding up in Kentucky, how he’d gotten a job to help her out since she was struggling to support them (though he would never tell her that was why), and how he told her he wasn’t going to college. The fights, the tears, especially when he said he wanted to be a cop, how he and Shane had found an academy in Atlanta they were going to join once they graduated.

How he had planned this all around the fact that Daryl was missing, but he kept to himself how he would have done anything to find him. The redneck probably already knew, but Rick didn’t want to voice out loud that he’d been devastated by the loss of his friend – how it’s all he’d thought about for the past year.

“Ya still gonna do tha’? Once sc’ool’s ov’r?” Daryl asked, laying side by side with Rick in the tall grass, the heavens stretched out above them in smatterings of bright constellations and faraway planets, tangled in patterns that Daryl loved to point out when his eyes traced over them.

“Might as well,” Rick shrugged. “It’s already planned out, don’ know how we’re payin’ for it though.” He let his eyes skitter over the speckled sky, taking it in and trying not to think too hard about what the next year would bring. What next summer might bring. “I’m good at it, too. I know when ta hold onta a good thang.” His mouth quirked a bit as his words got softer, thinking of the one thing that would always be worth it to hold on to, laying right beside him.

“Merle might not let’cha in the house no more,” Daryl huffed out, obviously knowing what Rick meant but playing that he didn’t.

“Guess y’ll just have’ta come ta mine,” Rick smirked, full on insinuation.

“Stop,” Daryl scoffed.

“Never,” Rick answered. Daryl turned his head to stare at Rick, who caught his gaze in an instant, held it there in a smoldering look that must have been a touch too far because Daryl turned back to the stars above them.

He was chewing his lips nervously, which just made Rick want to free them by pulling on his bottom lip with his own teeth, but finally found the words he wanted to say. “When would ya start?”

“S’posed ta be May, but I ain’t goin’ til the August class.” Daryl turned back to him, seemingly startled to find that Rick hadn’t looked away yet. “Got better thangs ta do that summer.” He had softened his clear blue eyes, keeping them locked on Daryl’s pale blue ones and holding onto them as long as the other would let him. And Daryl seemed frozen, numb with the sensations of how the night had gone, full of an indescribable amount of bliss and ease, far from how Rick’s first date had gone when he was 14. But Daryl’s lips quirked a bit, and he huffed a sigh that was laughter to Rick’s ears. “What?” Rick smiled at him, basking in the other’s happiness.

“t’s like a damn Disney movie,” Daryl said lightly, the shyest form of a smile pulling at his lips. “Layin’ in the grass, lightn’in’ bugs all aroun’, starin’ inta each other’s eyes. You sayin’ sappy shit.” Rick couldn’t help but laugh at that, it _was_ a little too picturesque. 

“I didn’ pic the spot, you did,” he protested, smiling wide and tilting his head a bit in the grass to get a better view of the young man laying beside him. God, he was gorgeous, even rolling his eyes and trying to not give into the smile and laugh Rick wanted him to let out so badly.

“Well yer the one sayin’ sappy shit,” Daryl repeated.

“Only cause it’s true,” Rick answered, finally pushing himself up onto his elbows, and leaning over a bit so he was now looking down at Daryl, hair fanned out in the tall grass with the soft chorus of cicadas and crickets and the redneck’s soft breathing. “So is this the part in the movie where I kiss you?”

“If ya want to,” Daryl murmured, somehow still hindered by his own thoughts and memories, even though the two had been practically seared together at the lips earlier that evening. Some part of Daryl was always keeping this at arm’s length, not sure to trust or accept it, and all Rick wanted to do was fall into it. Wanted to beg Daryl, please, please let me be what you want me to be. Rick had been dreaming about Daryl for months now, and every inch of him was perfect to Rick. He wanted to sink beneath his skin and never let go. Wanted to be everything Daryl ever dreamed of, too, but he couldn’t do that – or know if that’s what Daryl wanted – if Daryl kept shutting down. Too afraid of the ‘what if’s and ‘maybe’s that Rick imagined circulated through his head. So, throwing caution to the wind, he rose to his knees a bit and crawled up into the redneck’s space, slowly straddling his lap. Daryl also rose to lean on his elbows, watching Rick’s movements, but doing nothing to hinder what was about to happen – because he hadn’t stopped looking at him. Planting his hands on the ground, curling his fingers into the grass, Rick leaned down and kissed him deeply, slowly, with as much meaning as he could. Daryl pushed back, sighing deep and molding to every curve of Rick’s body. But he wanted to _touch_ Daryl, so he let go of the ground after he broke contact, and instead threaded his fingers through Daryl’s hair (quickly becoming his absolute _favorite_ thing to do), holding him in place and kissing him for all he was worth. This time as he kissed the other he used his mouth to pry the other’s apart, moving like waves on the ocean, and slid his tongue between the seam of his lips. Daryl actually whimpered at the contact, surprised and not sure how to respond for a few seconds, letting Rick ravage his mouth and moving his lips with the others as the older boy kissed him again and again.

When he finally did respond in kind, it was not the way Rick had imagined. His world slipped out from under him, disorienting until his back hit the bed of grass beneath them and Daryl was right there – strong arms bracketing him in, hot breath panting and fanning over Rick’s face he was pressed so close, and blue eyes blown so wide with lust it sent a primal rush of arousal straight through him. Fuck, that should not have been that hot. Only ever making out with girls Rick was always the one on top, unless he swung the girl across his lap and let her have her way – but that was fragile, easily turned so he could take control again, it was a give and take on his part because he had the advantage of being stronger. Which he would never take advantage of, his mother raised him right. But with Daryl – the give and take was up to the both of them, and Daryl could pin him down and man-handle him with such ease and strength that Rick would have to match it and probably catch him off guard to flip him. The roughness was exciting, comfortable because he didn’t have to worry about breaking the other boy, and he didn’t have to worry that he was being bested. Because where he was in that moment, pinned beneath Daryl’s body, heavy and warm and thrumming with energy, he wouldn’t have had it any other way. Daryl closed the gap between them, pressing his mouth to Rick’s, immediately licking the other’s lips apart, and Rick _groaned_ into the kiss. Couldn’t help the arch of his back, trying to press closer to the other boy, and the action causing his hips to roll against the other’s – which made them both gasp in surprise. Fuck, he had never been so turned on in his life, and Daryl must have felt the same because he was pressing hot, wet kisses from the side of his mouth and trailing over his jaw down the side of his neck. Shit, Rick wasn’t sure he could breathe, his skin was still sensitive from the bruising Daryl left earlier, but Daryl was careful in his movements, trailing over his throat just sucking more marks into the side of his neck and below his ear. Rick knew he was probably embarrassing himself with the gasps and moans that he couldn’t hold back, but he didn’t fucking care – the hot, intense arousal licking at every nerve ending was intoxicating, and Daryl’s hands were _all over him_. Sliding under his shirt, across his chest and down his arms and hooking his thumbs on his hipbones that had slipped from his jeans – the garment starting to slide down and catch on his –

Then Daryl rolled his hips downwards and Rick saw stars, fuck he knew he wasn’t being quiet anymore but Jesus Christ that felt good. Daryl seemed to agree, if the deep raspy groan he emitted was any indication, or that he did it again. And again. And Fuck Rick felt like he was about to catch on fire. “Daryl-“ He didn’t even know what he wanted to say, he was so sure he didn’t want the other to stop but he didn’t know if he was going to make it much longer if they didn’t do _something_! One jolt of pleasure made him arch more, leaning his head back into the grass, and the wet hot stripe of Daryl’s tongue tracing up his throat made his eyes snap wide open. _Fuck._ His vision was blurred and unfocused from the pleasure of it all, with fire racing through his core and straight down to his groin, god _damnit_ he could barely focus. 

Until his vision did, and he froze. A deep breath of air, inhaled as he panted through his pleasure, caught painfully in his chest, and the scream he wanted to let out stuck in his throat – but Daryl knew something was wrong when he went rigid, stopped his ministrations and pushed himself up over Rick in an instant. “Wha’?” he as panting too, flushed and sweat slicked and aroused beyond all reason – and suddenly so very worried. Because Rick wasn’t moving, his eyes trained on the forest, neck still arched back and not moving from the tree line. “Rick?”

But Rick wasn’t listening, because there was something big and black and lurking among the trees, hulking and so warped it almost didn’t look human. All teeth and dead eyes and even beneath Daryl’s comforting presence and warmth he felt _ice cold_ because it wasn’t moving. Whatever it was it wasn’t _natural_ , shouldn’t be seen, and terror was holding him in place so tightly that panic and the need to run was clawing at Rick’s ribcage and frantically beating heart. Then it twitched, smirked in the most twisted way, and opened its mouth to screech or talk or _something_ that Rick would never know, because the scream finally broke from his throat and the two teenagers scrambled upright and Rick scooted so far back he didn’t even know where he was going. 

“RICK!” Daryl’s head snapped to the tree line, but the thing was gone, having moved so fast Rick couldn’t help but start shouting hysterically.

“Somethang was there, Daryl! It ain’t human, an’ it was watchin’ us! It was _right there_! We gotta go, we gotta go now!”

He half expected Daryl to tell him he as seeing things, but the redneck didn’t even nod in understanding, just shot to his feet and grabbed his crossbow first thing. Swung the bag over his shoulder and then grasped Rick’s forearm, pulling until he was upright and then pushing him in the opposite direction, never taking his eyes off the tree line. “Keep running an’ don’ stop,” Daryl shouted, pushing Rick forward and racing right behind him. He hadn’t even seen the thing, but believed in Rick enough to know when to run, and didn’t even think twice about it. The two darting into the forest with reckless abandon, running from a shadow among the trees, just like when they were twelve years old.

Only this time they were even further away from the safety of the Dixon house, and this time Daryl didn’t know what they were running from. Just basing everything on Rick’s word, and Rick’s word alone.


	16. Buried In Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really nervous about this chapter, not as much as I will be about the next couple, but this one in particular - yeah.
> 
> I don't want to give too much away, just that this will be 100% horror, and I scared myself a few times while writing it. I started running out of adjectives at some points, hopefully it's not too descriptive-filled, but we're starting to get to a major plot point. It's going to be a big one, kind of where the story gets split in half. 
> 
> Mistakes, run-on sentances, and awkwardness are all mine; sorry I was super impatient and didn't want to go through it another time. But yay, it didn't take me a month to update! I'm trying to make more time to write, and cutting my chapter outlines in half so I'm not cramming so much into each chapter. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy it :)

Rick was pretty sure he had goofer dust in his lungs, he knew it was under his nails and from how much he was sneezing lately he was sure it was up his nose too. Daryl had given him an entire jar from his stores he had in his room; a large bookshelf stuffed full of make-shift crates that had dozens of jars, filled with powders and pickled plants and stones. And Rick had proceeded to use every last pinch of black dust to line all of the windows and doorways in his grandparent’s vast plantation house. It had taken him all day after he had finally gotten back home, after another night spent in Daryl Dixon’s bedroom. But all traces of intimacy had vanished like smoke in the face of the thing Rick had seen in the swamp. They had stayed up all night, Rick’s back against the wall as he sat on Daryl’s mattress on the floor, and watched Daryl dig through books and draw symbols and wards in white chalk all over his walls and dusty floor. 

The redneck had pried every ounce of information out of him that he could about the thing in the woods, even had Rick try to draw what it looked like. He’d spent a good hour trying to make some semblance of a depiction of the creature, an open mouth of sharp teeth that didn’t belong to any human or animal, eyes hollowed out like caverns inside it’s skull, jagged form hulking and pitch black and movements like smoke. 

The end result had sent Daryl into his first fit of drawings, and then piling books next to him as he flipped through volumes usually written in French, dusty white fingers tracing down the page to help him read and not really saying much else to Rick. But he sat there with him, pressed all along his side, assuring and anchoring the older boy, and let Rick space out and settle into a calm form of shock. By morning Rick was better, more grounded, had even dozed it seemed – since he woke to his head on Daryl’s shoulder and the redneck still sitting up wide awake. Eyes bouncing back and forth between the books in his hands, and the dark window with the blanket tacked up to the wall like always. 

“Did it come back?” Rick had asked quietly, slowly stretching the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. Daryl shook his head, and something dreadful and despairing filled Rick’s chest swiftly and smoothly like a stream of water leaking through a broken levee. It became hard to swallow, as he thought for the first time that – maybe Daryl hadn’t seen it because he wasn’t _able_ to. What if it was all in Rick’s head? But no, he knew what he saw, knew it was real with every _fiber_ of his being, maybe it was just only for Rick’s eyes? Maybe something was after him, he always knew – ever since he was little – that something in the woods was watching him. Something dark, sinister, _hungry_. He thought it was the Shadow People Daryl saved him from when they were younger, maybe it was, or maybe it was something else.

Daryl had sent him home with the goofer dust, a carefully guarded look in his eyes as he handed the jar to Rick, which sent another strike of fear through Rick’s already rattled nerves. It was almost as if Daryl was giving it to him just to make him feel better, as if he didn’t believe it would actually help. The parting kiss he gave him, deep and desperate and just the tiniest bit despairing made Rick feel even worse. Especially since he was the one insisting on going back, Daryl had wanted him to stay, wait until he found something in his books – maybe even go to see Nain’e’aine and check with her as well. But Rick was worried about his family, his Mother in particular, and he had to get back to the estate before she noticed he hadn’t come back the night before. 

He would later regret doing so, he had no idea what awaited him when he returned home.

\--

The house itself seemed fine in the stark light of day, and his Grandparents and Mother were none the wiser of his all-night absence, but that didn’t stop Rick from his mission to coat every entryway and window sill in a thick line of dark black dust. He left the vanity doors to the greenhouse where his Grandmother worked, and all the openings to the wing that housed his grandparents’ bedrooms for last, not wanting them to see the goofer dust and brush it away on impulse. But as the day wore on, the sun traveling across the bleak blue sky – somehow tarnished and not as bright as it should have been – the house increased in an intensity that Rick couldn’t put his finger on. Like the walls were vibrating, a deep bass of silence that resonated within the labyrinth of hallways and rooms and staircases. They felt alive, watching, waiting. Tense and awaiting impact. And so was Rick, something was wrong with the plantation house, so he moved faster and did his best to not fear the quickly falling dusk outside the dusty windows. 

When night fell the concentration of tension was at a crescendo, like the deep breath before the unbearable plunge, the painfully false calm of an eye in the storm. And it scared the shit out of Rick. He should have never left the Dixon house.

The summer days were long, it was well into the late evening when the sun dipped beyond the sea of trees surrounding the estate. Late enough that his Grandparents were asleep, and Rick could rest easy that the goofer dust was laid undetected in every nook and crevice of their wing. Rick’s Mother sat with him in the kitchen for a while, watching old _Gilligan’s Island_ reruns until she too went to bed a little after ten. But Rick couldn’t sleep, not yet, he stayed rooted to the spot for a while after – muscles bunched up in the same apprehension the house was seeped in, the strain and stress of it spreading like a virus in the air to the point it became unbearable. Eventually, when the grandfather clock struck midnight down the hall, Rick took a deep breath and braved the journey to his bedroom. Sleeping through the rest of the night would settle the pressure built within him, built so tight it felt like stones caught in his chest. He just had to get to his bed first.

But his bedroom was on the second floor, and the grand stair case stood mocking him in all its vast emptiness when he approached it. It took more than he would admit for Rick to take that first step up the stairs. 

It was eerily quiet within the high, daunting walls, towering over him and caging him in; the silence so thick it echoed as Rick climbed the staircase. It was such a drastic change from the liveliness of the swamp, full of crickets and birds and mosquitoes, cicadas creating a constant chorus of white-noise, and the plants creating a barrier that battled the emptiness when one was alone among the trees. The sounds of the swamp was what he tried to focus on, to battle the silence in the stairwell. But the house was haunting that night, shaking him of his mental barrier, because it felt too much like something was there tainting the house. Like suddenly the place Rick thought of as home had been replaced by something sinister. Something foreign and unnerving, something that didn’t belong. 

Swallowing hard, Rick continued to his room, knowing that once he was within the confines of those four walls, walked past the runes carved into the doorway, he’d feel better. Because right now he was too spooked by his own apprehensions to know if what he’d been feeling all day was his own paranoia, or the thing he had seen in the forest – or something else. The ‘something worse’ he feared lurked in the shadows. All he could think about was the churning worry in Daryl’s pale blue eyes, how he had – in his own way – begged Rick to stay until he could figure out what was going on. The redneck wasn’t comfortable with the aspect of not knowing something when he crossed paths with it, not able to identify or understand whatever it may be, how or why it worked the way it did. Especially if it was potentially life-threatening. He took too much responsibility for the world around him, the people around him, and had somehow changed in the past few years into becoming the person his family went to when something was awry. Of course, that meant not knowing how to handle any situation thrown at him was dangerous to him and his own, his Pa did not tolerate incompetence. But that wasn’t the only reason. He liked to understand how things were put together, like the parts of Merle’s motorcycle. And knowing how to work each facet of a single entity, comprehend it and direct it to his liking, like how each line of a _vévé_ reacted with the Lwa. But the not knowing put him on edge, his own version of Rick’s red alert that had the hunter’s teeth clenched tight and every muscle coiled for fight, flight, or defense. Daryl was always prepared for anything, especially the worst, so having Rick out of his reach was the _last_ thing the hunter wanted, where he couldn’t help him if something were to go wrong. And Rick had gone against his judgment – again. He was starting to wonder if he’d ever listen to his friend _before_ bad things happened in result.

It took too long to reach the top of the staircase; every step an eternity of pained silence, his movements heavy like he was dragging his feet through molasses. Rick could _feel_ the eyes watching him the entire time, was becoming painfully aware that something was actually there that wasn’t the ghost that haunted the halls normally, and it terrified him. So much he thought he might be sick. There was a wrongness to the air, stale and stifling and thick, making Rick want to hold his breath instead of breathe it in. He could at least feel better that the rest of the house had already gone to bed, safe in their rooms, all of which had wards carved into their door frames too. It was a strange and fascinating thing that the only rooms occupied by people where the ones with the symbols guarding them, as if everyone could unconsciously feel safer within them. And as soon as Rick got to his room, ran his fingers over the markings there, the tightness in his chest would loosen and he’d feel more assured as well. Grounded within a space he knew well – knew was safe no matter what.

He rounded the corner of the hallway, not even noticing how fast he was walking at first, until he had to slow momentum once he reached his open doorway. Rick made to pivot into his room, hand automatically going to where he knew the carving was, only to stop his swing inside with a jolt of confused terror. Underneath his fingertips was not the smooth, aged carving of an all-seeing eye, watching over and warding away dark entities – but deep, serrated claw marks, scratched heavily and profoundly into the wood in a mess of furious strokes. Completely destroying what had once been there. Rick’s heart froze in his chest, and his wide eyes darted between the scratched up doorframe and the darkness of his bedroom. It was like standing on a precipice, an abyss of deadly and gruesome things awaiting within the confines of his room, he once again felt the deep serrated teeth metaphorically tearing into his chest, a precursor to what he imagined might happen if he stepped into his bedroom. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he took a deep shuddering breath, emanating from the still air inside, and Rick couldn’t help but think that it must be what death tasted like. 

Damnit, he should’ve listened to Daryl.

Strangely, the terror felt different this time; it kindled in his chest but was confined there, sending adrenaline through him like a furnace powering a steam engine. Instead of being blinded by fear, paralyzed and shaking like when he was small, his resolve hardened into something more profound – more ready. Without Daryl there to help him, and his family in close quarters with something foul and horrifying – Rick’s basic instinct was to protect. His home, his family, and himself. His mind whirled with ideas of what it could possibly be, how he could keep himself alive long enough to find out, and everything he’d ever learned that could help him get it out of his house. He knew that if he acknowledged it then it would never leave him alone, would haunt him to the ends of the Earth, and that maybe he could use that – but he knew without the wards in place he had no chance to escape it. Whatever it was – was hungry, and after him. He’d need Daryl’s help, but he had no idea how fast it would react to his actions once it realized what he was doing – so he had to work quickly. 

His room was still dark, only the light from the window casting bright silver squares across his bedspread and headboard shone in the darkness, everything else was too still. Like something inside was holding its breath too. His eyes darted to each corner, but nothing was moving, no sound could be heard, whatever it was it could be standing in any shadow or behind any piece of furniture – or just beyond the doorframe, pressed tightly against the wall and waiting for him to walk inside.

As Daryl always said, he watched way too many horror movies, and he knew better than to venture inside and see for himself if there really was a monster under the bed. The first one to die was always the one that _had_ to see what that noise was inside the creepy room with no lights on. Rick was about 110% sure there was something lethal and non-human in his bedroom, and he was not going to risk anything to find out if he was right. Not with what he knew lay beyond the plantation grounds and inside the darkness of the swamp. There was such thing as monsters, and they did kill people. 

Carefully stepping back away from the door, Rick slowly started the long trek through the dark halls of the plantation house. Narrow and claustrophobic, with shadows stretching along the crowned molding and dusty picture frames. It wasn’t so quiet anymore, not with the rush of blood in Rick’s ears, the thump of his heart in his chest that was steady and quick, pulsing and pushing him forward. Tense and alert, hands clenched at his sides as he walked as quietly as he could through the corridors. Every turn spiked his heartbeat more, afraid of what would await in the next hall, but he never slowed – never stopped moving. Because he knew what lay behind him, and forward was the only way out of the nightmare trapped inside his house. 

He flew down the stair case, contemplating just jumping on the rail and sliding down to get down faster, but deciding to not temp fate and instead nearly tripped in his haste to the first floor. He went straight for the wing that his Grandparents occupied, also passing the room right down the hall from them where his Mother slept. The wards were still there, for now, carefully carved and strategically placed so no one would ever find them unless they were looking for them. So with that anxiety eased, Rick made his way to the kitchen with every intention of calling Daryl’s house, no matter how late the time was. Someone would be awake over there, Ryan if nobody else. He needed help, and he needed help _now_.

The house seemed to close in on him the closer he got, the repetitive hallways beginning to rattle his nerves with the adrenaline to protect his family fading now that he knew they were temporarily safe in their rooms, and Rick was starting to outright _expect_ something when he rounded each corner. Whatever it was had to be toying with him, it had to know he was up to something, so it had no reason to not show itself, and Rick screaming inside his head _where is it!?_ was probably not helping matters but – what the fuck was it playing at?

Making his way into the open entry way by the front door, Rick walked as steadily as he could through the vast room, and knew with every fiber of his being he needed to keep his eyes on the ground. Every instinct he ever had that symbolized self-preservation told him to not look up the stair case, because something was standing on the second landing. Solid as a statue, dark out of his peripheral, and he knew nothing resided in that space. And if he acknowledged it now, then his plan would be ruined, he couldn’t let it know that he’d seen it – not yet. Not until he knew help was on the way.

Keeping his gaze straight and his pace even, footsteps light through the empty hallways, he could see the light pouring from the kitchen windows into the hallway like yards of white silk, and the vice around his chest lessened just an inch. Each footfall was as silent as a graveyard, and Rick _really_ wished he had thought to grab socks or slippers or something, because he didn’t think he’d make it to the mud room to grab his boots. And the likelihood he’d be exiting through that room was slim. 

Rick rounded the last corner into the bright moonlight, and let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding on to when he saw the kitchen was blessedly empty, silver light catching on every gleam of tile and polished silver. That didn’t stop him from turning on the lights, all of them, lighting up the kitchen, sitting area, and all the way back into the mudroom – past the open archway with more symbols carved into it. Still empty, so he took another deep breath and let himself continue. He plucked the phone off the receiver, on the wall right inside the doorway, with his hands starting to shake as he dialed the number he knew by heart. But he didn’t let a bit of fear show on his face; it could still be watching him, waiting for the opportune moment. Rick knew there was no more opportune moment than having him pinned in one spot waiting for someone to answer the phone. Clenching his jaw so tight he could feel his teeth creak from the strain, Rick waited as patiently as he could for the dial tone to end. It rang, and rang, and the clock on the wall read half past one, and Rick still had a death grip on the phone as his eyes scanned the shadows in the room. Everything was blissfully still for all of two minutes.

It was when the lights flickered in the mudroom, stuttered and struggling, that Rick remembered the Dixons didn’t have an answering machine, so the phone would just keep ringing until someone picked up. The evenly paced shrills of the dial tone in his ear frayed at every nerve ending, his breathing and heartbeat starting to speed up to uncontrollable speeds in response to the trembling lights, and Rick couldn’t find it in himself to look away – staring with wide blue eyes as the lights finally killed in the other room with one last flicker of protest. 

The scratch of nails on wood was so loud in the dark house that Rick flinched, pressing himself into the wall with the phone no longer to his ear, but still clasped tight in his hand. Tiny shards of wood started to fall from the space Rick knew the ward was carved into, though nothing was there, just the stark casting of shadows from the lit up kitchen to the darkened mud room. Fuck, he needed to run, it was already there, if he stared hard enough into the shadows he could probably make out its silhouette. The dial tone still faintly sounded from where Rick has it pressed into his neck, mixing with the continued scratching of sharp nails into woods, tearing faster and faster with flakes of the doorway falling to the floor – bright and easy to spot in the light against the dark room. Rick shifted his weight, swallowed hard, and started to map out where he was going to run to – because like _hell_ he was dying in this fucking kitchen. His blue eyes were no longer staring in wide-eyed fear, but narrowed precision, this thing wanted to play with him then fine. Rick would play. 

The lights started to flicker in the kitchen now, and the scratching was so furious Rick was surprised it hadn’t broken the molding on the doorframe. Every inch of him was screaming to run, but the logical part – the part that knew he could get it out of his house if he tried hard enough, whispered back to just _wait_. Just a little longer. 

Then the lights went out, the dial tone died, and Rick ran. 

\--

He didn’t even remember tearing down the hallways, pushing off of each wall when it turned to keep his momentum going like he was inside a giant pinball machine. He burst through the front door, bare feet hitting the wet grass and making it a good few yards from the house before he turned around to see if it was still following him. The house lurked over him in that haunting way some old buildings do, old cathedrals and buildings that had stood there since before he were born, full of history but also full of secrets, time etched into ever fiber of wood and every shadow of every corner. But this time there was no secret to what lay in the house, Rick knew, because it was staring at him out the window. The window that was a good two stories up, and normally one could see the chandelier from the staircase through it. Placed high on the wall to let in sunlight, so it could catch on that glass chandelier and light up the stair well, but there was no landing by that window – and no stairs. So the thing wasn’t standing on anything, just watching him, it was still jagged and hunched, jet black and too far away for Rick to make out the sunken eyes and sharp teeth, but he knew they were there. 

“Com’on,” Rick grit out, staring it right in the face, or where he thought the face was. It seemed to bristle, as if it could hear him, and Rick’s feet itched in the wet grass to start running again. But he held his ground, tense and ready to bolt, but not until it moved. He had to get it to follow him. The hulking, silhouetted figure in the window shuddered, like an old movie, like it was ready to dart for him too, making Rick hiss under his breath impatiently, “c’mon you fucker.” His nerves and adrenaline and the fucking fear that what he was about to do was so fucking _stupid_ rushed through him like a river of fire and ice, but his family was inside, and that thing needed to be _outside_ before he could risk trying to lose of it. The coursing fear got the best of him, and before he could stop himself he shouted at it, “COME AND GET ME!” 

As soon as it moved, quick as a flash of light, Rick did too – breaking for the forest. He heard the front door slam open, the heavy wooden door cracking against the side of the house from the force of it, and Rick ran faster. His feet beating the grass as hard as he could, until he dove into the tree line and then he was back in the swamp, surrounded by trees and animals and bugs and noise, and it all flew by him in a blur as he followed the well known path to the Dixon house. They had wards on their doors, more powerful ones than the estate, Rick would be safe there. He had to be. 

The bright full moon lit up the swamp, catching on the damp leaves and misted Spanish moss, dew clinging to everything in the humid summer night, and Rick ducked under every branch and over every tree root faster than he’d ever had before. The terror helped him focus, helped him carefully remember the best routes, the fastest course, only encouraged more by the crashing of the thing following him through the swamp. It was then that Rick realized it didn’t belong there, it’d never been in the swamp before, if _Rick_ was more quiet than a fucking spirit-creature as they tore through the forest. Whatever it was – was actually sent after him, which made _no_ sense. What had he ever done? To anyone? Especially anyone who knew about magik and voodou. He’d have to ask Daryl, if he made it – the dark creature was gaining on him in the thickness of the trees, and Rick’s feet were screaming at him as he continued to run regardless of the dirt and mud, stones and bones, sticks and thorns he crossed paths with as he ran as fast as he could. He was sure he was bleeding, he had barreled through a thorn tree at one point, sharp stings where the salt on his skin caught with the small cuts made by the branches across his arms and face, but he never stopped. He’d die if he did.

When he got to the Dixon property, the gravel lot tore up his feet more, actually making him falter in his steps, stumbling to the ground from the pain ripping through the flesh on the soles of his feet. Coupled with the scrapes on his hands and knees when he caught himself, he ignored it all and pushed himself up and kept going, the Dixon house bright in the moonlight even with the rusted tin walls. He scrambled up the splintered steps and slammed into the door, hand on the handle and turning desperately – but it was locked. Since when did they fucking lock the front door! His heart beating its way out of his chest, Rick slammed his fist into the door repeatedly, shouting through panted breaths “OPEN THE DOOR!” Sweat dripped from his curls and made his shirt cling to him, blood staining as it mixed with the humid air slicking sweat over his arms and chest. He heaved for breath, his lungs on fire and voice hoarse as he continued to scream and beat on the door. “LET ME IN! IT’S RICK – LET ME IN!”

The door jerked open and Ryan was standing there, wide-eyed and more lifelike than Rick had seen him since he died, but Rick had no time to contemplate that as he darted into the house and slammed the door shut behind him. 

“THE FUCK’RE YA DOIN’ HERE!” Merle hollered at him, making his way down the hall and tugging a dirt-stained wife beater over his head. “’TS THE MIDDL’A THE GODDAMN NIGHT!” 

Rick completely ignored him, scrambling to relock the door and pressing himself against it, holding it closed with his entire body weight – just in time for the thing to slam into it, the whole door shuttering in its frame, but still holding strong. Suddenly both Merle and Colby were there too, holding it shut as the creature slammed into the door twice more, and the screech it let out was so angry and horrifying, high pitched and shrill that it made the glass jars chime on the table in the living room. Ryan was climbed on the back of the couch, looking out the window of wire mesh and broken glass, dead brown eyes scanning everything until it settled on one entity and didn’t move. 

“The FUCK was tha’?” Merle said angrily, no longer shouting with the creature just outside the door. His sharp eyes darted to Ryan, and asked him directly “ya see it!?” Ryan nodded, but didn’t move, tilting his head a bit in curiosity and his gaze following the thing as it moved towards a different side of the house. Then Merle rounded on Rick again, “The fuck ya thinkin’, boy! Bringin’ that thin’ here! The fuck di’ja do!?” But Rick was beyond talking, knowing he was now safe within the walls of the Dixon house, his whole body started to shake. Everything hurt; the air in his lungs, his torn up throat from running and screaming, the dull ache and sharp sting of gashes on his feet and cuts on his arms, gravel stuck in his palms and knees. He was still dripping sweat, and trembling something fierce, so there was not a force on Earth that could’ve gotten him to answer Merle in that moment. He tired to form words, but the tremors in his muscles and limbs were too much – too distracting as he shook in jittering movements and tried not to pass out. He barely even heard Merle scream for Daryl down the hall. 

Warm hands were touching him moments later, tilting his head up and making him look into pale blue eyes like the bright summer sky in the early morning. He looked a right mess, he knew it, and Daryl looked fucking scared, so lost and unsure of what to do. He tried to pull Rick to his feet, causing him to hiss in pain when the bottoms of his feet hit the coarse carpet that blanketed the inside of the house. “Fuck, look’it his feet. Why’s he got no shoes on?” Words were warbled in Rick’s ears, mixed with the continued rushed of blood that drowned out almost everything and the thumping drumbeat of his racing heart. He had no idea who even said those words, it might have been Colby.

“C’mon Rick,” Daryl murmured, getting a good grip on his arms and lifting him to his feet despite the pained whimpers and sharp gasp he let out at even standing in one spot. 

“Jus’ fuckin’ carry him,” Merle grumbled, no longer standing where he was before, Rick didn’t even know he’d moved. 

“He’s fine, Merle,” Daryl defended, and with Rick’s arm over his shoulder half dragged the older boy into the kitchen, each step agony for Rick until they got him into a kitchen chair. 

“It was in my house, Daryl,” Rick finally managed to get out, the pain helping clear his head of the shock his body had gone into. “It was _in my house_ , scratched the witch’s markin’s right off the doors.” Daryl had been so focused on inspecting the scrapes on Rick’s palms that his eyes snapped up in surprise as soon as he registered what the other had said.

“What?”

Rick nodded, swallowing to try and clear the dryness of his throat, his breathing starting to get back under control. “Scratched them off the doorways – I saw it happen, in the kitchen. I tried’ta call you, phone kept ringing, and I saw it scratch off the markings by the mud room. Where we kick off our shoes. Ya remember it?” Rick asked desperately, practically begging for a response to break the stunned silence. But Daryl wasn’t answering him, his eyes darting around in a form of panic Rick hadn’t ever witnessed before, in fact he abandoned Rick’s wounds and shot to his feet – only looking back at Rick once before darting down the hallway.

“DON’ MOVE!” he called over his shoulder as he ran to his room, Merle also glancing at Rick for a second before following his little brother. The muffled voices of them talking echoed down the hall, but Rick’s world suddenly tilted sideways and then he couldn’t understand them anymore. 

His skin was buzzing, limbs light and warm, numbing out the pain but also everything else as well. It separated his head from his body, dizzy and unfocused – and uncomprehending to the words now being shouted down the hall. They were arguing, and somewhere in the back of his mind Rick knew that was bad, but God it was so hard to focus. Everything felt too warm, he felt like he was fading, dissolving into a puddle of sweat and blood there on the Dixon’s kitchen floor. Though he fought against it with every last ounce of his strength.

He snapped his head up when the Dixon brother’s returned with arms full of what Rick was beginning to recognize as standard ritual materials. But Daryl dumped them unceremoniously on the kitchen table when he saw the state Rick was in. In an instant he was hovering over Rick again, in his face, holding him hostage with sharp blue eyes and calloused hands tapping against the side of his face. 

“You stay awake ya hear? Ya can’ go to sleep – dunno wha’ this is yet. Ya might no’ wake up if ya do.” Rick nodded in understanding and shifted so he was more upright in the chair –when he started listing to the left, he couldn’t have said. 

Daryl started working too fast for Rick to keep up, but he could still hear Merle talking nonstop beside him. 

“-it was only a matt’ra time, an’ ya knew it! He don’ know wha’ he got ‘imself into, wha’ _you_ got’em into! An’ you shoul’ know bett’r! Ya didn’ do nuthin’ fer him?”

“I did,” Daryl seethed. “Get off m’back! I took care’o it a long time ago!” Déjà vu, Rick remembered Daryl saying that not too long ago, when they were pouring over books in Daryl’s room. He hadn’t wanted to touch the snakeskin book, but Daryl said not to worry about it. That’d he be okay. Fuck, he didn’t feel okay. “Don’ und’dstand,” Daryl grumbled, grinding up herbs and salts in a mortar with angry turns and twists. “Nuthin’ should be touchin’ him – gettin’ to him like this. I spent a damn year on tha’ stupid thing – did ev’rythin’ right – just had ta keep the damn thing on. Know he nev’r takes it off-“ Daryl cut himself off mid sentence, his movements ceasing along with his breathing. After a moment he finally muttered, 

“Ya nev’r went back for it.”

“Back fer what?” Merle questioned, arms crossed and looking more pissed off than confused. But Rick was confused, he was supposed to go back for something? Back where?

“Nah,” Daryl shook his head urgently. “Ya don’ forget shit, specially not important shit.” He turned back to Rick, seemingly talking to him but not talking to him, which was fine cause Rick wasn’t really able to keep up with verbal conversations at the moment. Daryl ended up back in his space, and Rick was becoming _very_ aware of that because it was so damn hot in the kitchen, before pulling at the collar of his shirt in search of something.

“ _Good Lord_ , did’ja get mauled!?” Merle snapped, and Rick felt blood rush to heat up his face. He knew he had multiple deep purple and red marks bruised into his skin along his neck and collar bones, unashamedly putting Daryl’s handy-work on display.

“Shut it, Merle,” Daryl snapped back, also a little red in the face and distracted for only a moment, finally speaking to Rick directly. “ _Shit_ , ya don’ have it on. Ya didn’ go back for it?” 

“Back for what?” Rick asked in agitation, trying to duck his head and hide the bruising from Merle’s prying eyes.

“The damn _gri_ -“ shrieks like an air siren erupted in the kitchen, and Rick doubled over with his torn up hands over his ears. It rang and echoed, making Rick grit his teeth, the sound like steel nails on a chalk board. He felt hands pulling at his wrists, trying to pry his hands from his ears, and Rick opened his eyes after the sound died down to see the Dixon brothers and the twins staring at him like he’d grown an extra head.

“What was that?” Rick asked, pain evident in his tone. That was _awful_.

“…We didn’ hear nuthin’,” Daryl murmured, watching him with weary eyes. He was careful not to say the word again, not wanting to risk the same reaction, and Rick was fucking _scared_. Trying to figure out if his chest hurt because his heart was beating so fast, or because it had stopped dead. What was _wrong_ with him!? 

Merle, however, had a little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, and the spark in his eyes was like he found a bright shiny button that said ‘do not push’. He opened his mouth, false-started and choked on a laugh, before finally chuckling out “Ya made him a _gris_ -“ the shriek returned, echoing off the kitchen walls, and Rick was right back in the position he had just left, holding his ears and praying for it to stop. This time it was so loud he almost blacked out. He came back to himself when Merle’s shouts started drowning out the ringing in his ears, and Daryl came back to side after beating on Merle for being a jackass. 

Crouching down on the floor in front of him, Daryl looked right up at him, those pale blues eyes so hypnotizing in the state Rick was in he couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to. In fact, he was pulled straight into the cool soft depths, swirling like pools that he would happily drown in. Fuck, why was it so hot it that damn kitchen?

“Rick, list’n ta me,” Daryl snapped his fingers in his face, the urgency in the redneck’s voice making him focus. Had he been talking before that? “List’n, ya need ta rememb’r it on yer own. Ya can’t hear it, somethin’s not lettin’ ya, so it’s up ta you, and – I swear ta _GOD_ , Merle, ya say it one more goddamn time I’ma kick yer teeth in!” Daryl yelled, head snapping to the side to glare at his older brother. Who had his mouth open and words caught in his throat.

“C’mon, baby bro, I’m jus’ kiddin’ around.”

“Ain’t a damn joke, Merle, he’s fuckin’ cursed!” Rick’s blood turned to ice in his veins, awareness coming back to him like slamming into a brick wall. And his wide eyes must have given away the irrational childhood terror instilled in him for the word ‘curse’, because Rick could barely get out one word before Daryl was talking over him. “It’s alrigh’, I’m gonna fix this – we’re gonna get rid’a it.”

“But what if ya can’t!” Rick almost shouted, hysterics making his blood pump so face it started to hurt. “Shit’s fer life, you said that! What if you can’t help me – ya said if I’m cursed ya can’t help me! _FUCK_ , why is it so hot in here!” Sweat was making his clothes stick to his skin, his face felt like it was on fire, and he had stopped running a while ago it all should’ve dried by now. God it was so hot.

“He’s kinda red ‘n the face,” Colby muttered.

“SHUT UP, Colby!” Daryl shouted. “Ev’ryone jus’ shut up! Rick, ya gotta calm down,” he tried to soothe after shouting at their audience lined up on the other side of the kitchen. Daryl was still hovering too close, and Rick felt like he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t even feel Daryl’s hand on his neck. “Yer heart’s beatin’ too fast, ya gotta breathe and calm down. It’s not hot ‘n here, I promise, it’s part’a the curse, I’m gonna get rid’a it but ya need to _breathe_.”

“But, you said –“ fuck he could barely breathe, it was like trying to breathe in the heat from a furnace.

“I was a kid, too small ta do anythin’, now I can. I’m gonna help you, jus’ trust me.” 

That struck a chord within him, a moment of clarity rippling through him like a drop of water in a pond, and Rick took in a shaky breath, bright blue eyes glazed over in fever finally finding Daryl’s. “I trust you.” There was never any question of that. 

“Keep breathin’,” Daryl said as quietly as he could, bringing down the air of panic that had filled the room so thick it was stifling. Over-exaggerating his inhales and exhales so Rick could match them. It took a few minutes, but Rick’s heart finally started to get out of the realm of dangerous. It was still too damn hot though.

“Think I’m melting,” Rick said tiredly. 

“Figures,” Daryl huffed, a list to his lips that had no humor. “Nev’r could stand that Georgia heat, could’ja.” He didn’t move away, reaching for the mixture on the table and adding oils as he spoke. 

“Don’ be a dick,” Rick mumbled out, but a tired smile tugged at his lips too. Something moved behind him, and he jerked at the presence out of his peripheral, and only steadied when all he saw was white. 

“Easy boy,” Merle said in a low rumbling tone. “Twitchy as a meth-head tha’s jons-in’, relax. Don’ need ta worry ‘bout old Merle here, jus’ helping out.” He had put up banishing sticks again, in all of the corners of the room, though Rick couldn’t smell the incense at all. “Darylina will fix ya up an’ we’ll get’cha on home, an’ the rest’a us can get back ta some shut eye. Know ya need yer beauty sleep too.” That was probably the closest to comforting words Rick had ever heard come out of Merle’s mouth, shit he must look really bad. 

Rick started to fade in and out around that time, couldn’t pay much to attention to what Daryl was doing, but he felt him paint some stuff on his face at one point, and the cool mixture was as soothing as a balm on his flushed skin. Merle’s conscious stream of thought that poured out of his mouth started somewhere after he mentioned his own need for beauty sleep and conquested to his adventures with women in neighboring towns, and continued to a white noise Rick had never appreciated until it was all he had except the ache in his wounds and the heat of his skin. At some point they probably thought he’d stopped listening. 

“I think they have it,” Daryl murmured somewhere by his head. “Don’ know how, but they do.”

“I would’a known if they was snoopin’ around our property,” Merle said back in agitation. “An’ so would you, ya two are out there more than anyone, ya would’a seen ‘em.” 

“It’s the only thing tha’ makes sense,” Daryl told him. “It’s got some’a his hair in it, if they burn’d it then that’d be why we could see tha’ thing too. An’ why he can’t hear us say it, shit I don’ think he can ev’n rememb’r it. Ain’t suppos’d ta be like this, shit’s too powerful.”

“Thinkin’ we’re in ov’r our heads, baby bro?”

Daryl scoffed sadly, “Thinkin’ we pass’d that a long ass time ago.” Cool hands were against his face, and Rick felt like he was about to pass out, he could barely keep his eyes open. “Can’ tell if it’s working, still too damn hot. We gotta move ‘im.” The blended smell of cigarettes, damp earth, and Spanish moss wafted towards him, and strong arms were trying to help him out of the chair, Daryl’s shoulder pressed firmly under his to try and lift him up – but Rick couldn’t even feel his limbs, everything was too numb, too warm, and ached so profoundly it seemed to echo from his bones.

There was a silence beside them for a moment, before Rick heard Merle ask. “What do ya think Moreau wants with ‘im?”

Giving up on getting Rick to stand on his own, Daryl deposited him back in the chair with a sigh, and though Rick’s vision couldn’t focus, he could feel Daryl’s eyes on him. 

“I don’ know.”

Rick’s thoughts felt like a mess, strained and thin and hard to grasp like wisps of broken cobwebs, but he was trying to piece together what the Dixon brothers were saying. What was happening to him – seemed to be what happened to Ryan, according to Daryl’s theory, except instead of poking him full of holes they seemed to be boiling him alive. Fuck, it was so hot. And he kept seeing shit, memories as bright and vivid as if he were re-experiencing them all over again. The gushing of red blood that poured out of the wounds on Ryan’s body, his screams echoing off the tin walls in the living room, Colby screaming when Ryan took his last breath. He could remember every word spoken in that living room when Daryl was begging his Pa to not make him do this _“What’s dead shoul’ stay dead, you know that!”_

If this killed him, would Daryl try to bring him back too?

Panic started to race through him again, thundering in his chest and reverberating through his limbs, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be half-dead like Ryan, left to wander between the trees at night and confided to a dark room during the day because he couldn’t stand the sight of the world thriving in the sunshine. God, Daryl wouldn’t do that to him, would he? He wouldn’t do that.

It’s when he felt those strong arms again, this time behind his back and under his knees that the panic hit him full force, knocked him out of his trance and his body into frenzied movements. All he saw was the cruel smirk on Ryan’s face when the thing inside him had a hand around his throat, the blaring chorus of the spirits and shadows circling through the clearing trying to get at his empty body, and the screaming echo of silence that always hung around Ryan now. After death. 

There were screams and shouts bouncing around the kitchen now, it wasn’t until he was dropped on the floor and Rick had scooted all the way back until his spine hit the wall that he realized the person shouting the loudest was him. He was in hysterics and he couldn’t seem to get himself to calm down, and neither could Daryl.

“RICK! Just stop, it’s alright! We’r jus’ taking you outside!”

“NO! DON’T YOU DO THIS TO ME!” 

“Rick yer too hot, we need to cool ya off!” Daryl tried to yell over him, crouched down on the floor in front of him but with a good couple feet distance in case Rick kicked out at him. “We’re not gonna do anythin’ else!”

“ _NO_ ,” Rick shook his head, blue eyes clouded over in fever and starting to blur with tears. “Yer gonna take me _there_ , and I don’t wanna come back. I don’t wanna be like Ryan, Daryl. Don’t you do this to me. _Please_ don’t do this to me.” Daryl grew really still at his words, shock settling over his features. 

“I wouldn’-“ but he couldn’t even finish that statement.

A wave of tremors wracked Rick’s body, and God everything hurt, he still ached from barreling through the woods, slicing up his skin on the way – and his over-heated skin was making everything feel ten times worse. He felt like it was killing him, he knew he let out a whimper and keeled over a bit, but they should be glad he didn’t shout out instead. He wanted to scream it had hurt so bad. He breathed deep, to try and steady himself, and tried to focus as much as he could and stare right into Daryl’s eyes – insistent and hurting and blurred with angry tears. “Don’t you dare bring me back when I die, Daryl Dixon.”

A winded sound escaped the redneck, and anger filled his gaze as he glared back, “You ain’t gonna die-“

“I already am.” He was glad he got that out, statement so strong it must have slapped Daryl in the face, because a pained sob escaped him just after that – strained and so raw, Rick didn’t know how he was still breathing. “It’s _killing_ me, Daryl, just _please_ – make it stop. I don’ care how, just knock me out _please_!”

His words were too close to what Ryan had been begging before he died, Rick could faintly recognize that through the heat and the pain, but it left Daryl paralyzed. He didn’t know what to do in that moment, and Rick’s body couldn’t stop trembling, causing wave after wave of sharp pains. If his body would just relax, the aches would dull and he’d be back in the state he was in the chair. But _fuck_ , he couldn’t stop.

Suddenly Daryl was pushed out of the way, and Merle was right in his face, unscrewing a jar of dusty white powder. He dumped a pile into his hand, face stoic and eyes narrowed and determined, so resolute that Rick couldn’t help but think he and Daryl were truly brothers – because they never looked so alike than in that moment. He was so distracted by that thought, that he wasn’t prepared for when Merle brought his hand up level with Rick’s gaze, and blew the white powder straight into his face. 

It tasted like chalk, smelled like it too, Rick tried to cough and get it out of his lungs but suddenly found himself incapable. He didn’t even know if he was breathing anymore.

It was the last thought Rick had before his world faded to black.


	17. For Everything A Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUICK PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: If anyone is going on the Walker Stalker Cruise (that's literally tomorrow) HIT ME UP in a comment, my husband and I are going to be there too and I'd love some fellow Rickyl fans to talk with. I'll even buy you a drink :)
> 
> I've been frantically trying to finish this chapter so I could get that out just in case one of my readers is also going. It's been a crazy 6 weeks, and to everyone who left me comments last chapter I'm sorry I haven't gotten to reply yet. I broke my ankle 5 weeks ago, and while I first though "Yay, I'll be laid up so I can write non-stop for a few weeks" I actually ended up in a drug-induced haze for the first week while marathoning Law & Order: SVU and Boardwalk Empire (I may have written an extensive outline for a Rickyl 1920's inspired gangster story afterwards, oops), and then went back to work where Star Wars kicked my ass up until literally last week. (I work in a movie theater)
> 
> So I'm not crazy happy with this chapter because I rushed it a lot, but Rick being all assertive is fun to write so it should be enjoyable still :) but this chapter is very VITAL because big shit is going to go down so I powered through the important bits and got it done!!! Some stuff changed too, because apparently even when I have an outline my story gets away from me. I'm sorry if it's confusing, and I'd like to say I don't intentionally alternate between magik chapters and drama chapters, but here's a drama chapter. It's un-beta'd too, there's probably a bunch of mistakes they are all my fault - I didn't have time to send it off because I literally fly to Miami in 14 hours and I really want to get this up.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry in advance.

Shane had dark eyes, so dark a brown that they appeared black when surrounded by the night.

And Rick hadn’t seen Shane in a while, not a long while – but at least a week or two. He had skipped church the week before, where he most frequently saw the other boy nowadays, to go hunting with Daryl in the swamp. So it’d been a minute, and the sight of his best friend standing over him with his arms crossed surprised him more than he could say.

But what alarmed him the most was that, last he checked, Shane’s dark eyes were not _this_ dark.

They were dark and blank, empty black pools that held no spark reflecting in them. Gone was the little glint of danger and something debatably illegal that made them light up despite the dark brown color, that spark was what Rick had always known his friend well for. It was always there – sharp and glittering even when there was no light, and the effects were infectious: charming and friendly when facing adults and instructors, seductive and alluring with the girls, dangerous and full of promises to his enemies, giddy and contagious when with his friends. Rick knew every look like the back of his hand, but he hadn’t ever seen this one, calculatingly watching him with no trace of his friend that he knew so well. It was carefully blank, controlled and spoke of thinly veiled darkness, malicious and so wrong when paired with how he held himself in that moment. The whole picture appeared so quietly _angry_ that it made Rick’s stomach tie up in heavy knots. 

He didn’t even know why Shane was there.

The last thing he knew Daryl had been trying to calm him down in the kitchen…

Shit, was he really that bad off that Daryl had called _Shane?_

Rick was laying down, his head pillowed on something warm but tough, coarse fabric that scratched at his over-sensitive skin. He was also outside instead of in the Dixon’s kitchen, and the cool night air made him shiver and shake – over-heated skin not able to handle the gentle summer breeze. God he still felt so damn hot, Daryl had said something about getting him outside to cool him down, and Rick was so delirious that he couldn’t tell if it was helping. There were candles everywhere, but the sky was still dark, so it was still nighttime. There was still a chance his Mother hadn’t woken up at home and no one knew he was gone, no one knew he had almost died. Except Daryl, Merle, and the twins. He couldn’t see any of them, but to be fair Rick couldn’t see further than where Shane’s blurry figure stood vigil close to where he was laid out. It was only instinctual awareness and this comforting feeling of familiarity that Rick even knew he was still on the Dixon property.

Hell, Rick could barely make sense of anything – except that Shane was there, when he wasn’t supposed to be.

He should look scared, too. Shane didn’t trust Daryl any further than he could throw him, and he usually had this dangerous, _violent_ look in his eyes when he saw anything pertaining to voodou. Like he wanted to smash whatever it was to pieces. But that was just the Christian in him, more than anything, and Rick forgave him for it every time – he didn’t know better. Rick would’ve taken that dangerous, violent look over the dead one that Shane sported now, lifeless and too black it seemed. But Rick’s vision was still a little blurry, every time he blinked sending whatever clarity he had found into a watery haze that was smeared across his eyes. 

That disorientation blinded him from what was in front of him, his fevered mind drawing the wrong conclusions, and the residual ripples of the curse playing tricks with his thoughts.

The stance, the carefully guarded look, Rick was convinced Shane was furious at them. He thought of what happened, what Daryl could have possibly told the other boy to make this whole situation make sense – and decided that the only thing Daryl would’ve done was told Shane the truth. No wonder he looked so mad. And Rick thought of what he must look like, sprawled across the floor, slicked with sweat and fading in and out of consciousness, fevered and delirious with shallow breathing that rattled in his chest. He’d be pissed too, if it had been anyone else and he walked in to find them in this state.

The eyes should have been his first warning, should have sent off alarm bells in his head, but Rick still wasn’t thinking clearly. It wasn’t until Shane started to speak that he knew something was wrong.

The smile that curled at Shane’s lips was not something Rick was familiar with, the cruel twist that warped his face was so striking Rick had the aborted thought to flinch. It was mocking, and distorted on his best friend’s features, and when he spoke it did nothing to hinder the expression. Rick couldn’t really hear him, for starters, and it took everything in him to try and focus – to make sense of the sounds from where he was still laid out on the ground. The words got jumbled in translation, coming off more as Shane speaking in tongues rather than English, and Rick thought in alarm that the curse had literally fried his brain and he would forever be unable to understand another living person. 

But slowly words became clear, stringing together in scattered phrases until the sentences were laid out starkly. Except they made no sense still, and it took Rick a moment of blinking up at Shane for him to understand. 

Tilting his head a little, Shane smiled again, “You look so confused, brother. Can ya hear me now?” Rick blinked slowly, everything on such a delayed reaction he wasn’t able to form any semblance of a response before Shane barreled on. “I’d say ya look comfortable, but that’s wha’cha goin’ for right?” 

And Rick _was_ comfortable, his head lightly raised and supported on the warm, tough surface that smelled faintly of the forest floor, and the presence behind him so comforting that… it could only be one person. “He really does try, don’t he?” Shane laughed humorously, viciously quiet and calm. “No matter how much ya come tearin’ through his life like the damn tornado ya are, fuckin’ everythin’ up, he keeps on trying. Wonder how much his daddy’s gonna beat him for the blood ya smeared all over their shitty kitchen floor.”

What.

“And the front door, it’s a right mess ‘n there. He’s probably use’ta it by now, takin’ what ev’r his Old Man dishes out just ta spend some more time with you.” Shane’s dark eyes peered down at him, arms crossed and body so relaxed in comparison to how much Rick’s just tensed up. Shock over took his body, quickly followed by rage. The FUCK was he doing!? “Ya know it’s been happenin’ for years now right? Every time we dragg’d him ta the Greene’s swimmin’ hole, or out huntin’ in the forest, whene’vr he’d been gone fer too long durin’ the day he’d just stroll on back home and get the livin’ shit kicked outta him for it – and he nev’r minded one bit. Because he loves ya _that much_.” 

Rick was hyperventilating.

His body wouldn’t _fucking_ move, but he was about to vibrate out of his damn skin, everything in him wanting to jump up and punch Shane in the fucking face. Daryl was _right there_ , Rick could feel his presence like the sun on his skin in the morning, and he couldn’t believe the younger boy hadn’t so much as twitched at Shane’s words. 

“Aw,” Shane cooed cruelly, getting closer to his face – and Rick knew that if looks could kill Shane would be dead and buried, because the furious anger rushed beneath his skin like fire and all he wanted to do was sink his teeth deep and tear until that devastatingly malevolent look dropped from Shane Walsh’s face. “Ya still don’ get it, do ya?”

Rick flinched at the fingers that were suddenly brushing wet curls away from his face, feeling his heated skin, and it took him a full minute to realize it wasn’t Shane touching him. Daryl was trying to turn his face away from where Rick was glowering heatedly at Shane, seething in anger with every labored breath, and shaking from the exertion. 

“That’s why yer gonna die Rick,” Shane laughed scornfully. “Well, it’s either gonna be you, or him. And we both know Daryl Dixon too well ta know he’d ever let that happen. Stupid, fucking, lovesick, redneck. _God_ what ya fuckin’ do ta him. Yer gonna be the death of him Rick Grimes, and he’ll smile and thank ya when it happens. Maybe he deserves it, some peace after all the shit ya’ve put him through. But I know you too Rick – and I know you’re too damn selfish ta let him go. 

“Wonder who’ll win that one, who’s more stubborn. Who gets ta be the martyr Rick? You, or him.”

And Rick blinked, and Shane was gone.

“Rick,” Daryl said from above him, shattering the silence that echoed against the trees, and Rick flinched again though Daryl had mumbled so quietly, just trying to rouse his attention. He sounded tired, like he’d been at it for a long time. 

They were on the raised platform, everything was becoming clearer in little waves between the confusion. Rick could make out the shadows of trees against the night sky, could see the altar in shades of blue and orange from the candle light of the couple dozen lit on the dusty wooden boards, and the summer breeze gently moved the flames – but the soft wind felt like knives made of ice against Rick’s still over-heated limbs. Everywhere that wasn’t touching Daryl was absolutely freezing, the shaking tremors racking his body in short spasms, helping the anger dissipate as Rick’s heart rate started to slow back to normal. 

Fuck – it wasn’t real, Shane hadn’t been there at all. 

Was he still dying? Rick felt like he was still dying, there was no reason he should literally feel every atom in his body.

He felt Daryl sigh deeply, Rick moved with the motion, and the fingers in his hair sent his sense of equilibrium spiraling until he thought he might be sick. It was so hard to keep his eyes open and focused without wanting to throw up, but as his gaze traced the edges of the altar and how it stretched far above him up into the night sky, he was able to find his balance. The perspective from the ground, his head pillowed in Daryl’s lap, was so different that in his still delirious state it became too fascinating to not focus on. Suddenly, he could read the story of life and death he had thought the altar had been trying to tell him for years, as clear as day. And time got away from him, awareness slipping through his fingers like water, but as slow as molasses.

Until someone snapped their fingers in his face. 

Merle and Daryl do have similar eyes, he thought absently, as Merle was suddenly in his line of sight trying to get his eyes to focus on him. Peering at him in the dark, having abruptly appeared and jarring him from his trance, blocking his view of the altar. Huffing in annoyance and shaking his head in that way Merle did when he considered something a lost cause – but Merle also had the patience of a toddler, so that wasn’t saying much. The fact he considered Rick even worth checking on should have been flattering enough. But Rick couldn’t find the strength to open his mouth or speak, couldn’t respond in any way fast enough, because when he finally found the aborted motion to do so Merle was already gone. 

Or had he not been there at all?

God, his brain must still be playing tricks on him, the curse was making him see people – see memories and visions that didn’t belong on the raised platform. Hell maybe his Father would show up next, he could use some of his abstract words of wisdom right about now.

Then a voice came from somewhere he couldn’t see.

“He gonna liv’?”

It was Merle again.

Maybe he really was there.

“Course he will,” Daryl snapped quietly, harsh and too close to Rick. So much so Rick flinched violently once more, but it must have mixed in with the spasms from the cold, jolting his limbs and sending wracks of electric awareness through his body. He couldn’t tell if it hurt.

Merle was quiet for a minute, a gift from the Lwa if there ever was one, but the silence was heavy – Rick could feel it, could practically see his stoic face, serious like how he’d looked at them crumbled on the ground in the clearing earlier that summer. Because now Rick was laying on the bleached platform, his head cradled in Daryl’s lap, with the younger Dixon catering to the health of his body and soul in the only way he knew how. Once more into the breach, or however the phrase was supposed to go; once again trapped in a struggle with death and danger, but held together so strongly through whatever their bond was made of – equal parts stubbornness and compassion, perseverance and love. It was tragic and beautiful and so fragile a thing that it was a wonder to think that it had lasted this long without falling into ruin…

So the soft mumble of “this time,” Merle uttered was like a mallet shattering glass. So utterly destructive this time Daryl flinched at the words. The return silence was so heavy and foreboding it physically weighed on Rick as even Daryl’s hands stilled in his hair. The atmosphere pressed down on him painfully, straight into the ground, and Rick couldn’t tell if he was still breathing. If he was still dreaming. If what he was hearing was real or just another hallucination. 

“I know,” is all Merle said after the silence stretched too long, and Daryl seemed to curl more in on Rick’s prone form, refusing to look at his brother. “I _know_ , and damnit ya know I’m piss’d ‘bout it – not as pissed as Pa’s gonna be.” Daryl tensed as if awaiting impact, his muscles going rigid in his back and shoulders all the way down to his thighs. “– but ya knew that too. Maybe ya jus’ don’ fuckin’ care, which’a make ya stupid as shit fer thinkin’ ya won’t hav’ta deal with him lat’r, but I ain’t gonna be the one to tell ‘im.” Rick could feel Daryl shift, turning to look at his brother. Rick wished he could too, because – wow. Merle wasn’t going to rat them out? Sure he teased them about Rick being his ‘girlfriend’ and being too close for two teenage boys, but that was different from _knowing_ , especially in the backwoods of Georgia. Folks got killed out here for much less, for just hints and suspicions, for rumors with no proof. 

Rick didn’t know what conversation happened unspoken between the Dixon brothers, but it had to have been important because the next thing Merle said was like a slap in the face. “He won’t make it next time, no damn thin’ as secon’d chances. Lwa won’ save ‘im again.” 

_Save me?_

Had – had Rick actually _died?_

No, Daryl promised him he wouldn’t do that to him. But if he had been at death’s door, like he had been back in the Dixon’s kitchen – ranting and raving to make the pain and the heat stop – Rick wouldn’t put it past Daryl to beg the Lwa for help. Again.

Adding to the debt they already owed them.

Digging his grave just a little bit deeper.

“Ya gotta let ‘em go, Daryl.”

_No._

Now Rick knew he was hallucinating, because Merle never called Daryl by his name like that. And Daryl was shaking his head, had curled back in on Rick, calloused hands stroking the side of Rick’s face. And Rick wanted to protest at the hallucination so much it hurt him. But he couldn’t _move_. And Merle kept talking.

“Daryl,” Merle snapped. “t’s gone on long ‘nough. Ya gotta stop this shit, and git rid of him.”

Over Rick’s dead body.

“He don’ fuckin’ belong here, n’ver did, and playin’ house with him ain’t gonna change a damn thing about what’s been goin’ on here. If he don’ get hims’lf killed, it’ll be you next, or me – Pa if we’re lucky. Jus’ kick ‘im to the damn curb already-“

“ _Shut up_ ,” Daryl said through his teeth, strained and angry. 

“No, you list’n to me boy,” and Merle’s voice was louder now, having gotten closer to them though Rick still couldn’t see him or even Daryl’s face, but his voice was so close now it vibrated against his skin. “If you give a damn about him – and don’ fuckin’ tell me if ya do, cause I don’ need ta know that shit – yer gonna send his ass home the moment he can walk.”

“Don’-“ Daryl’s words were cut off as Merle cuffed him upside the head.

“Don’ what?! Don’ tell me what I ain’t gonna do, besides give a shit ‘bout yer damn feelin’s. Cause it’s gonna hurt a whole hell’va lot more when yer crying over a fuckin’ corpse next time. And there _will_ be a next time, you can count on tha’, boy.”

Daryl’s breathing was labored, mirroring when Rick had started to hyperventilate earlier, and his body was so tense even Rick could feel the small tremors. His grip on Rick was nearing painful, and Rick would give anything to see Daryl’s face right now – struggled with ever fiber of his being to turn his head just three fucking inches so he could look Daryl in the eye. Beg him not to listen, Merle was a paranoid son of a bitch – and a pessimist to boot – so like hell he was going to convince Daryl to become a martyr once more because of his _fucking family._

Fuck if he could just move!

Merle huffed a frustrated sigh when Daryl stayed stubbornly silent. “You gotta let him go. Fer the both of’ya. And ya know I’m right.”

Rick wanted to scream, Merle had no say – no right to say _shit_ – about what was between Rick and Daryl. Rick’s fingers twitched, shook with the exertion of Rick trying to move, sit up, _jump_ up and make Merle stop talking. He didn’t get to say all this shit without Rick getting a say so too - 

_You gotta let him go._

“NO!”

Finally Rick’s body decided to cooperate, and he shot upright, jolting into a sitting position with strained breath heaving in his chest and the horror of not being able to move racing through him like adrenaline. 

But Merle wasn’t there, the platform empty with just the candles flickering in the wind and Daryl’s wide worried eyes glowing in the faint light.

“Yer alright, Rick – _Rick_ , look’it me,” but Rick was too busy looking for Merle, no - he was _here_. Right here, and like fuck Daryl was going to listen to his ‘what’s best for you both’ _bullshit_ without Rick getting his say so.

“Hew’s _right here_ ,” and then Rick realized he was saying his thoughts out loud, slurring and still shaking but feeling better than he had before. More aware, finally able to feel something besides fire and ice and pain, “Where-“

“Ya were seein’ shit, it ain’t there,” Daryl said quietly, calmly, in hopes Rick would match his energy level and come back down from the manic episode he was having. “It wasn’t real, what’ver ya saw.”

“No, he was _here_ ,” Rick tried to protest, but the adrenaline was fading fast, leaving him with just exhaustion, so all it took was a light touch to his shoulder as Daryl tried to pull him back to send him to his previous position of laying with his head in Daryl’s lap. But this time Rick’s fevered blue eyes were trained on the younger boy, he had to _understand_ – he heard what Merle said, and over Rick’s dead body was he going to let Daryl listen to him. “I know what he said, don’t go, please don’-“

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Daryl told him, letting Rick cling to his hand and arm and smoothed his sweat soaked curls sadly with his other hand. _No_ , he wasn’t allowed to look like that, Merle’s words echoing in his head just like they were in Rick’s. _If you give a damn about him-_

“No, don’ look at me like that,” Rick near whined, shaking his head weakly, “don’chu do that, don’ let me go. Don’t go.” But Daryl must have thought he was still hallucinating, because the complete _sadness_ in his eyes wasn’t something he would’ve ever let Rick see otherwise. 

“I’m stayin’ right here, I ain’t goin’ anywhere tonight.” _No._ “I got ya, it’ll all be over soon.”

_NO._

But the exhaustion got the better of him, and his world faded back to black.

The absolute worst part was – Daryl hadn’t lied to him once. 

He stayed with him through the entire night, never let him go – didn’t stop touching him, memorizing every inch of his face, tracing over his cheeks and lips and jaw.

Like he’d never get another chance to. 

And soon after that, it was all over.

\--

“Ya know he’s only doing it because he cares about you.”

Rick glared at nothing, didn’t answer, and only locked eyes with Shane when the other boy threw a piece of tree bark and hit him square in the chest.

“Ya listening to me?” Shane asked him, his irritation interrupting the careful words he’d chosen, and though he had kept his tone understanding it cracked with exasperation. When Rick nodded at his stern look, Shane just shook his head. “Then here it is again – he’s only doin’ this because he cares about you.” And Rick heard him, but it only made him sigh in frustration, letting his head fall back against the Magnolia tree where they sat on the ground behind the church yards.

“Doesn’t mean he ain’t bein’ an asshole about it,” Rick grumbled angrily, because that was all that was left of his emotions after the past two weeks of radio silence from the youngest Dixon. He wasn’t even staying at the house, so no matter how many times Rick made the trip to the Dixon property Daryl was never there. After Daryl had made sure he’d gotten home safely, even helped him up the stairs to his room and carved new wardings into the door frames, Rick had passed out before Daryl had left. More than anything he was pissed at himself, that he didn’t hear if Daryl said good bye or not. Or said something that might have been important, an explanation, _something._

Didn’t change the fact Daryl was still handling the situation like a dick.

“Well it is Daryl,” Shane couldn’t seem to stop himself from muttering. 

“Not helping, Shane.”

“I know, sorry brother.” He ran his hand through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp in that way he did when he wanted to say something but just knew it was going to turn out bad. It was such a Shane trait, something that made his chest ache – because Rick was still a little thrown off whenever he saw his friend, after the words the hallucination had spit at him that night on the platform. But that hadn’t been Shane. None of this was Shane’s fault, Shane hadn’t really done anything to warrant the hate Rick wanted to feel for him, so he tried to put it out of his mind. Shane was just being a good friend, listening to Rick’s troubles with Daryl even though he didn’t even like the Dixon. And Rick had an inkling that whatever Shane wanted to say had something to do with that dislike.

“What?” he questioned tiredly.

“It’s just – maybe Daryl is right.” 

Rick’s eyes narrowed, hardened in an instant, causing Shane to barrel on defensively. “Hear me out! Hear me out.

“Just, maybe this is for the better, ya know?” Shane tried, quiet and cautious, licking his lips nervously. “Ya said ya almost _died_ , Rick – and if Daryl cares about you as much as ya say he does, then ya should probably just let him do what he wants. He just wants ya safe, man.”

“He doesn’t get to choose that for me,” Rick almost seethed, anger afresh in his veins, the quiet anger that was worse than anything explosive. “He doesn’t get to make decisions for me without even _talking_ to me about it!”

“An’ you don’ get to _make_ him keep you, or talk to you. Ya can’t force him to, Rick - it goes both ways brother.”

“He’s only doin’ it because he thinks it’s too dangerous and – shit, he shouldn’t be doing all this crap either. It is dangerous. And violent and messy, so he needs someone who actually gives a damn what happens to him _there_ , to have his back. His Pa doesn’t give a fuck, and Merle’s been drinking so much I’m surprised he knows who Daryl is most days. Ya don’t know Shane, what his Pa makes him do, he takes the brunt of it all and he’s gonna get himself killed. He can’t do this alone. He shouldn’t have to -“

“Does he _want_ to?” Shane interrupted Rick’s rant. “Has he told you he wants to go this alone, whatever yer talkin’ about?” Rick’s mouth snapped shut, and the silence as he tried to gather his thoughts was enough of an answer for Shane. “He’s not a kid anymore Rick, and neither are you, yer grown ass men and if you can make yer own damn decisions about your life then so should Daryl. He wants to keep doing this crap, who’re you ta stop him?”

“Because I’m – ” what, his friend? His boyfriend? 

– the one person who loves him that much.

_Because I love him._

If Daryl got himself killed doing something so stupid as a spell of revenge for his family’s fucking bootlegging business, and Rick could’ve been there to help him – to save him – but _wasn’t_ … he didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t know what he’d do without Daryl if something unspeakable happened. He’d spent the past year without the other boy and it had been a living hell, the slowest and cruelest form of torture that left a wound that never healed. He couldn’t do it again, Daryl was so engrained in him as a person, woven through the fabric of his life, that Rick couldn’t even imagine what he would do if Daryl wasn’t there with him. He was even rethinking the police academy, he wanted to actually _talk_ with Daryl about it, he – he wanted a future with the other boy. 

No – the other _man_. They were men, like Shane had said, and Rick wanted Daryl next to him for the rest of his life. 

But if one of them died over this damn vendetta between the Dixons and Moreau, everything would be ripped away from them before it could even get started. 

Shane’s dark eyes had softened in the face of Rick’s silence, and his own argument seemed to have died in his throat, but he still understood. Shane always understood Rick, and he always would. 

“I know ya are, ya do,” he answered low and quiet. “Just… give him some time. Ya have to talk to him before ya go back home, he wouldn’t leave ya without saying goodbye after what happened las’ year. Even Dixon’s not that much of an asshole,” he ended with a careful encouraging smile – the kind that was still contagious, and Rick could feel the involuntary upturn of his lips. The weight of his anger lessen a little in his chest, the tension a little more bearable, and he nodded after directing his gaze to his hands.

“Yer right.”

He heard Shane scoff, and mumble under his breath, “when was I ever wrong,” making a smile finally break out across his face.

\--

He tried, he really did.

Okay – that’s a lie, Rick barely tried at all. He couldn’t help it, he was _angry_.

Despite Shane’s reassurances, which had been convincing enough to tide him over for a little bit longer, Rick made it all of two more days before he finally snapped. 

Enough was enough, and there was one person Rick _knew_ was too damn nosey to not know where Daryl had run off to, and he was going to get answers if it fucking killed him.

He waited until noon, when Rick knew the other man would be sober, and made his way to the Dixon house with purpose. When he broke through the tree line, Rick stalked across the gravel lot to where Merle and Colby were elbow deep in the rusted pick-up truck, and when the older Dixon looked up to see him coming straight for him all he did was laugh. 

“He ain’t here, boy scout-“

“I know that,” Rick cut him off, and didn’t stop his momentum until he was standing next to the raised hood, could tilt his head and direct Merle’s line of sight straight into his piercing blue eyes. “And you know where he is, don’t you?” The smirk dropped from Merle’s face, but something that looked like amusement still stained his features, creased his eyes as he feigned disinterest though Rick knew he was curious. 

“An’ if I did?”

“Tell me,” Rick demanded, voice even and hard eyes never breaking contact with Merle’s face. It was a tactic he knew, and was very good at – he’d used it on other boys in Kentucky, on Shane, people crumbled when forced to stare their conflict in the face, or they flared up and prepared to fight. 

Merle apparently liked to fight.

But Rick had anticipated that too.

“Wha’ if he don’ want ta see ya,” Merle sneered, tossing the wrench to the ground when he was through with it, the long metal piece clanking against the other car parts scattered there. 

“He hasn’t,” Rick countered. “For almost three fucking weeks. If he want’sta continue then he’s going to say it to my damn face.”

“Got some attitude on ya, don’cha,” Merle smirked.

“Yeah, it’s called ‘pissed off’,” Rick retorted with a frown. “He don’t get to run away, not from me. So tell me where he is, Merle.”

Merle’s silence, the tick of hesitation and the smirk that threatened to twitch at his lips painted the words he spoke for what they were, “He’s up in Atlanta, wen’ta see Uncle Jess for a while.” Even if Rick hadn’t known better he would have known Merle was lying through his teeth.

“Uncle Jess is in jail, try again,” Rick answered low and even.

The smirk finally broke like a flooded dam, spreading wide across Merle’s face unashamedly, and he laughed a bit before answering. “Always like’d ya kid, but yer too damn smart fer yer own good. Gonna get’cha in trouble one day. Now git on outta here b’fore yer Momma starts callin’-“

Merle had turned away, dismissing the teenager, and didn’t expect Rick to suddenly appear in his path – thumbs hooked in his belt-loops doing nothing to hide the fists clenched by his hips, the careful calm that radiated anger and rage, face stoic and jaw clenched tight. Something dangerous that he hadn’t known simmered below the surface of this clean-faced rich kid that for some reason liked his baby brother, and he was at the same time impressed and annoyed that he had somehow missed it.

The kid didn’t say anything, though he looked like he wanted to, but it read plain and clear that Rick wasn’t leaving the lot until he was told where Daryl was.

Merle was ready to punch him in the teeth.

“Ya really wanna fight me on this, boy?” Merle muttered dangerously, towering over him though Rick didn’t flinch. “Cause I’ll beat’cha inta the ground, make ya choke on yer teeth.”

But Rick didn’t move, didn’t blink, just kept staring – those narrowed blue eyes defiant and stubborn. He was not afraid of Merle Dixon, not after everything they’d been through, and Merle was _so_ ready to show him why he should be.

“Merle,” a voice from the porch said in warning, causing both young men to snap their attention to where Daryl was exiting the house. Rick’s whole demeanor shattered, and Merle just got more angry.

“’Bout damn time,” Merle snapped. “Com’ break up wit yer damn girlfri’nd already, tired of dealin’ wit yer shit – can’ even take care’a yer own fuckin’problems wit’out draggin’ my ass inta it-,” he stormed off, continuing to mutter obscenities the whole way about how he don’t have time to deal with Daryl’s issues, and Colby followed silently as the air got thick with tension. Rick’s heart was about to beat out of his damn chest it thumped so loud, so fast, and a mixture of fear and anger was bubbling through his veins. And shock, because like hell Daryl was breaking up with him, they’d barely even been together. 

Daryl for his part looked equals bits ashamed and nervous, hidden well behind his standard poker face, which only made Rick even more irritated.

“That what this is?” Rick asked, not able to stop himself. But Daryl didn’t answer him, could barely look at him. “What, ya trying to do _what’s best_ for me? Or are ya just tired of me?” The last question was just to get Daryl to look at him, which he did – glared right back into Rick’s angry blue eyes. They both knew what this was about, had nothing to do with any lack of feelings on either of their parts, but Daryl wasn’t even going to _talk_ with him about it!? Bullshit.

Rick stalked toward the porch, ready to get in Daryl’s face about it, but the redneck stepped back – hunched, defensive, muscles tense and that “fuck off” look plastered all over his stance and his face. Daryl had never shied away from Rick before, had never put his friend on the receiving end of where he held the rest of the world, like they were ready to kick him as soon as he was down. It made Rick falter his steps, taken aback, but not even that look would stop him. He just slowed, stepped up until they were both on the porch, Daryl in the doorway and blocking entry to the house.

Was this really how he was going to be?

“Don’t I get a say?” Rick asked, anger still there but more in check, sadness seeping through the cracks but not taking over his frustration. 

“Ya’ve had plenty’a say,” Daryl ground out. Rick had always pushed his way in, made him come along to Nain’aine’s, made Daryl take him to the clearing, made him help with the rituals. He never once let him leave him out, never let him leave his side – Daryl never had to do anything alone, but he never got an opinion on the matter either. Daryl’s protests were always vetoed, and so many terrible things had happened because of it – Rick should’ve listened to Daryl so many times before. But this, this was different, and Rick had to make him see that.

“Not about this,” Rick said quietly, significantly. 

Daryl swallowed, shifted, but didn’t allow Rick entry. They were really going to talk about this on the fucking front porch, despite Rick doing most of the talking portion. 

“Daryl,” he pleaded, until the redneck looked at him again. His eyes would always give him away, how much he didn’t want to follow his brother’s advice – his own advice – but ultimately would because it was right. “I know you don’t want to do this, and I’ll back off – I’m… going back home soon, we leave next week. I got school, but I still want ta be with you–“

Daryl sighed when he realized the older boy was trying to compromise, and Rick’s words faded out.

“What is it?”

“Ya don’ get it,” Daryl grumbled. “It ain’t you-“

“If you say ‘it’s me’ I will punch you.”

Daryl’s pale blue eyes snapped up in anger, frown threatening to curl into a snarl.

“You don’t _get_ it,” he seethed. “They’re after _me_ , my family. Fer wha’ we done. Not _you_.” Daryl shook his head, like Rick was so _dumb_ to have not realized that. “They don’ give a flyin’ fuck if you poke yer nose where ya ain’t supposed to, they just know ya mean somethin’ to me… and they’ll kill ya for it.”

Rick’s heart was in his throat, and fuck did he feel like an asshole, he had no way to get around that. Daryl was really doing this because he cared about – he loved him – and the knowledge of that is what had kept him moving forward, kept fighting for them. Daryl loved him too, he knew it, they couldn’t let Moreau or whoever it was do this to them. Rick wasn’t going to let him win, he wouldn’t lose Daryl a second time. 

But if the danger was that real, Rick knew he needed to take a minute and actually _listen_ to what Daryl was trying to tell him. For once in his life he needed to listen to him.

“Ya think I’ll be safe at home,” he questioned, serious and quiet.

“Safer than here,” Daryl answered just as quiet.

Rick nodded, solemn and understanding – finally fucking understanding. The Dixon’s were at war, or about to be, and Rick was getting in the crossfire. He was leverage, if nothing else, and Daryl wanted him at arm’s length so he couldn’t be used as such. They would kill him, torture him, just to get at Daryl – the youngest Dixon, the only one who could complete spells correctly, curse someone, protect his family in effective ways against forces that weren’t from the barrel of a gun. He was important, and Rick was his weakness. How Moreau knew that – was beyond him, probably beyond Daryl too.

They must have been watching them for a long time. 

“They’ll never believe it,” Rick almost whispered, eyes bright and soft, head tilted in thought, the angle sending his gaze right into Daryl’s eyes. “And if they do – they’ll know.” Daryl’s expression twitched in question, making a small sad smile escape Rick’s lips, the words slipping out before he could take them back. “They’ll know it’s because you love me.”

It was the absolute worst thing Rick could say, because Daryl’s face crumbled.

Rick closed the distance between them in a second, the vulnerable and devastate look on Daryl’s face drawing him in without question, until there was barely an inch of space between them. And Daryl watched him do it, didn’t shy away as Rick had feared, instead silently question _why_ , why would Rick do that – say that. He had been so close…

“And because I love you too,” Rick whispered in the small space between them, fingertips barely holding on to the hunter’s arms and pulling him forward until he leaned his forehead against Daryl’s. It made Daryl close his eyes, his features scrunching up in emotion – like he wanted to cry – but Rick had never once, actually seen Daryl cry. Even though he’d been close the day that Daryl had hit him so hard he’d blacked out. Rick wanted to say it again, _I love you_ , but the words got caught in his throat, and no matter how hard he swallowed he couldn’t get them out. They just echoed in his head, loudly and on repeat, so over-whelming that he thought he might burst if he didn’t get them out. 

He’d just have to say it in a different way.

“I’ll go,” he forced himself to say, in a voice so quiet and low it could’ve been a whisper – something he learned from Daryl, something he had wanted to know how to do since the moment he met the other boy when they were small and lost in the forest. “I’ll stay away, let them think we’re done.” He threaded his fingers through Daryl’s hair and pulled them apart, made the younger man look at him until their blue eyes were locked and nothing else around them mattered. “But you remember this – I’m coming back for you, I told you nothin’ will ever keep me from you, and the minute you need me you _say something_. You understand?” Rick was pleading by the end, and Daryl nodded shortly – making them both snap back to center, like they always would. In a fire-fight they understood each other more deeply than any other person in their lives. Nothing would change that, not distance, or time, or the love or hate they may feel in the moment – that connection would never be lost. Settled too deep in their bones to ever carve it out.

And Rick kissed him, pulled Daryl in close and poured everything he felt into it – the anger, the frustration, the compassion and the worry and the endlessly devastating amount of love he felt for Daryl fucking Dixon. And Daryl kissed him back like it was the last thing he would ever do.

\--

It was the hardest thing he ever had to do, leave White Oak without saying goodbye one last time. 

But they had to keep up appearances, luckily it wasn’t hard to keep himself locked in his room for the remaining week he was at his grandparents estate. 

And the year went by slow, achingly so, with a mindless routine of school, work, phone calls from Shane, and caring for his Mother. During the year she worked hard, was a night nurse at the hospital and worked long dreadful hours, so it was easier to focus on her and making sure that she got taken care of when she wasn’t able to take care of herself. It also solidified his choice to do the police academy once he graduated, he couldn’t leave her to live alone like this while he was far away at college and unable to come help her if she needed it.

It often made him wonder about Daryl, how far away he was and that if something were to happen Rick could drive all night and still not make it in time to help. Not that he’d heard from the redneck all year, Rick didn’t actually know when he would ever speak to him again, see him again – when it would be safe to grab on to him and pull him so close he never had to let go. It made him more sad than he had a chance to be, couldn’t appreciate it until late at night when there was nothing left to distract him, and because of that he didn’t really sleep much that year. 

He did a good job of finding distractions, though.

It was a sobering and amazing thought, that Rick had this whole life in Kentucky that revolved around this huge set of responsibilities that he couldn’t just leave behind. Making sure his Mother ate during her 12 hour shifts, keeping his grades up so he could still get into the academy, making sure Shane was right there with him so he wouldn’t have to go alone, his job at the grocery store, keeping up on the house and the bills without his Mother noticing, being the solid shoulder for the few close friends he had in school, and resolutely not dating a single person at school because he _somehow_ still had time to day dream about Daryl Dixon.

It was sobering because of the vastness of the responsibilities he had in his life that he someone managed to keep up with. Having his grandmother’s car for his own personal use helped in that feat.

The amazing part was that he _was_ still able to drop everything at a moment’s notice. 

And he didn’t regret it one bit.

It was mid-March when the phone rang late one night, close to midnight in the middle of the week. Rick had just gotten back from the hospital not an hour before, having brought his Mother dinner like he always did, but she had been busy with a patient so he’d just left it with the other RN’s at the nurse’s station. He didn’t even think twice about answering, his Mother usually called to thank him if she missed him, talk with him about his day and say good-night. She was a good Mom, tried so damn hard for him, and being a good son he did everything he could to make her life easier and affirm that she was doing a good job. He turned out just fine, in his opinion. 

“Hey Mom,” he answered tiredly, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pulled containers out of the fridge to make his own late night snack before he crashed for the night. “Sorry I missed ya, looked kinda hectic so I didn’t stick around. How was the-“

“…Rick.” 

The words died in his throat at the gruff Southern drawl, quiet and nervous and something so carefully held back that it was terrifying to hear.

“-Daryl?” Rick almost choked on the shock, the way his heart suddenly hurt it was beating so hard. “Wha- what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Unless his crazy older brother just went up and shot Moreau between the eyes, there was no way something wasn’t wrong. 

“Y-No, I jus’…” Daryl couldn’t seem to bring himself to answer, but Rick could tell right away that _no_ , Daryl wasn’t okay. “I didn’ kno who ta call an’… I need help.”

“You hurt?” Rick asked quickly, shoving everything back in the fridge and shoving on his boots as quickly as he could. 

“No, no’ me-“

Fuck.

“I’ll be there by morning,” Rick told him, not leaving room for debate. “Will they make it that long?”

“ _I don’ know_ ,” Daryl admitted.

“Okay jus- try to keep them comfortable, I’ma come as fast as I can. I’ll give ya my Mom’s extension at the hospital, ya call her if ya need help on wha’ ta do okay?” Daryl didn’t answer, so he must have nodded – he still sucked at phone calls. After rattling off the number and snagging his car keys off the counter he stopped by the entryway to put the receiver back and tried to breathe before hanging up to run out the door. “Daryl?”

“Still here,” he mumbled quietly.

“Okay, it’s gonna be alright. I’ll be there soon. I-“ 

_I love you._

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

Its eight hours from King County, Kentucky to White Oak, Georgia. 

And Rick drove all night to get there.


	18. Fault Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I want to thank everyone who sent me good wishes for the cruise, I didn't meet any Rickyl fans but it was an amazing experience. If they do another one (who am I kidding they will) I highly recommend it. Walker Stalker did a fantastic job and were wonderful hosts. And yes, Norman is just as sweet and down to earth and gorgeous as everyone says. I got to see him two times, I'm still a mess and it was five weeks ago. Wonderful man, he deserves the world <3
> 
> Okay, this is the wind-up before the punch. And the punch will be a two parter, then I think I will finally hit the 2/3 marker on this story. I love each and every one of you who have kept up with this story and the long updates, you are so patient, and this fic has been going officially for a year and a half. You all are rockstars, and I appreciate every kudos and comment and subscrition <3 I'm not giving up so thank you for not giving up on me 
> 
> Lastly, I posted a couple weeks ago a part 2 to my playlist with some new images if anyone is interested: http://8tracks.com/inspired-workaholic/southern-discomfort-vol-2  
>    
> 
> 
>    
> WARNINGS: this chapter is gross, like.... really gross. The things I had to google search. Get ready for feels. Mutilation is best I can give you without ruining the chapter, lots of blood and stuff. 
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful The_Royal_Gourd who makes my chapters actually readable XD and cuts my run-sentences into tiny manageable ones. You are a treasure my dear. Anything else is my own edits, so enjoy.

\--

When Daryl opened the door at 8:00 the next morning, Rick was so stunned at the sight he couldn’t breathe.

Never mind that Rick had literally driven all night without stopping, adrenaline fueling him through most of the nighttime hours. Though he had to blink furiously around 5 a.m. to keep focused on the road, suffering until he hit a radio station just past Atlanta that he knew well. It was the one he and Daryl would always listen to (whenever they could get a hold of Merle’s truck), and it played music to help him stay awake the rest of the way. Memories paired with the songs the best motivation to drive just a little bit faster. He had that to thank for the great time he made, and the inhuman amount of coffee he chugged all night long – thank God for gas station coffee. He hadn’t ever had a taste for it until the past year, since he was staying awake at all hours, trying to stay busy – trying to stay distracted. Now he was reminded why. Nothing in his wildest imagination or constantly revisited memories could compare to the breathtaking sight before him.

Even disheveled as Daryl was – eyes dark from lack of sleep, a light dusting of scruff across his chin blending in with the goatee he was trying (and succeeding) to grow, hair cropped shorter than Rick had last seen it – he was gorgeous. And the relief that crossed his face when he saw Rick, pale eyes tracing over every inch of Rick’s face and soaking in the sight of him, made it seem for just a moment that everything else faded away.

Rick could only guess he himself looked a mess after driving 8 solid hours with no sleep for the past 24, but he was also past the point of caring. He had barely made an attempt to smooth down his dark curls, which were a humid mess in the warm morning air, and the dark circles under his eyes that matched Daryl’s were the last thing on his mind as he stared unabashedly. The soft, tired smile that spread across his face was something that he couldn’t have stopped with the force of an army behind him. 

But before he could even blink, open his mouth to say anything – though _what_ he wanted to say he didn’t know – he was grabbed and pulled forward, and suddenly he had his arms full of Daryl.

Rick would have been relieved, welcomed the embrace even, if it hadn’t been so out of character for the redneck. Daryl’s strong arms were locked around him, holding on so tight it was like a steel trap had sprung shut, his face buried in the junction of Rick’s neck and shoulder. All Rick could feel was hot breath and the feather light touch of a closed mouth pressed to the exposed area where his shirt was pulled down, not leaving any form of a kiss – but just holding there with such tension it radiated from the younger man. Muscles locked and solid as stones beneath tan skin, and all Rick could do was wrap his arms around the younger Dixon, comforts falling from his lips on instinct.

“It’s alright,” he kept saying quietly, and Rick wondered if Daryl was holding himself so still to keep from shaking. “It’s going to be fine, hey-” it took a few minutes for Daryl to unlock the vice grip he had on Rick, the older teen able to finally pull himself away so he could see Daryl’s face once more. He had to duck his head to catch Daryl’s averted gaze, the redneck obviously embarrassed once he’d realized what he had done. “It’s good to see you too,” Rick told him sincerely, firmly so Daryl would know he wasn’t alone. “I missed you, a lot.” It helped relax the younger man enough that he would at least look at Rick again. “Now, will you tell me what’s goin’ on?” Daryl nodded, but still didn’t speak. Jutting his chin to indicate Rick should follow him, before he led the way into the house.

They had barely made it into the living room before a voice echoed their entry. “Well look’it who it is, should’a known he’d call you.” Merle’s voice sounded heavy, sluggish, wet and congested like there was something stuck in his throat and clogging his lungs. Only one look at him told Rick that it was blood. “What’cha lookin’ at, princess,” Merle grumbled, trying and failing to shift into a sitting position on the couch. Deep slashes across his chest, neck, and curving up over his jaw and the edge of his face bled through the bandages that looked like Daryl’s handiwork. They didn’t look to be healing very well either, and his skin was paler, sweat slicked and gaunt. 

Exhausted and having obviously lost a lot of blood, Merle seemed to be holding up okay for what it was. But what hindered him from sitting up, and was probably the perpetual cause of Daryl’s panicked phone call, must have been the open wound on Merle’s hand. It was festering and leaking puss, the entire top of his hand a sickening black colour around the wound – each fingertip dusted dark grey, indicating lack of blood flow. 

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Rick swore breathlessly once he saw the appendage, blue eyes wide and heart sinking all the way to his stomach. “Why – you need a hospital, _now_.”

“Can’t –” Daryl stated to say before Merle barreled over him.

“An’ say what?” Merle snapped. “I got bit by a fuckin’ invisibl’ spider or whatev’r, ya got any anti-venom fer a magical tarantula? Think’n it’ll save my hand, doc? I n’ver even saw the damn thing, fuckin’ shifty-ass cocksuck’rs,” he trailed off in a mumble as he took another swig from the whiskey bottle in his good hand.

But Rick was already shaking his head, panic clawing at his chest, and almost scared to approach the man confined to the couch. “It’s dead, y-yer hand’s dead Merle. We gotta get rid’a it – before it poisons you.”

“Get rid’a it? Ya mean cut it off!?!” Merle hollered, outraged and with a sudden panicked energy. “Like _fuck_ yer cuttin’ off my hand!” And then Daryl was there, spinning Rick around so he could look right into his eyes, blue locked on blue.

“We ain’t cuttin’ off his hand,” Daryl said, finality in his tone, almost glaring at him too.

“If the dead tissue gets in his blood stream it’ll kill him,” Rick said as firmly as he could, years of boy scout first aid and health classes kicking in. “It might be why those cuts ain’t healed yet, either.”

“They ain’t healed cause they ain’t natural-“

“Ya think a couple a scratches gonna kill me,” Merle shouted loud to make sure he was heard. “Ain’t nuthin, I’m fine!”

“Anyone can die of blood loss, Merle,” Rick snapped. “Even you! And the scratches ain’t the problem! You get blood poisonin’ there ain’t anything out here that can help you!”

“We are _not_ cuttin’ off his hand!” Daryl said louder too, almost shouting in his face, and Rick wasn’t equipped to deal with Dixons yelling on both sides of him. Though that didn’t stop the glare he sent at Daryl, he was happy to see him but – fuck if Merle hadn’t begun to rub off on him in the months Rick had been gone. The older teen side-stepped out of the redneck’s grip, and made his way to the kitchen.

“Wait! Wher’ ar’ya-“ Daryl started, the brief flash of panic that crossed his features bringing Rick back into the moment. They were scared. So scared Daryl had called Rick for help, and Rick needed to keep a level head and not let the situation get out of hand.

“I gotta call my Mom,” Rick answered, already dialing the number for the hospital. “Let her know I made it alright, then ask her for help.” Daryl nodded once, understanding, but still with a wild panicked look in his eye – Rick really didn’t want to have to fight both Dixon brothers on this, but Merle’s hand was a hunk of dead flesh by this point. How they didn’t see that frustrated the older teen to no end. 

“Rick, what’re we gonna do?” Daryl finally murmured quietly, apprehension seeping back into his face past the anger and panic. “I don’-“

“We’re gonna figure it out,” Rick assured him, dial tone ending with the hospital answering machine. Rick punched in the extension and waited. “We always do,” he ended with a small smile that Daryl didn’t match, but he looked like he wanted to, and that was a start. “– Hey, Mom?” Mrs. Grimes answered the nurse’s station call, a relieved sigh heaved into the receiver that even made Daryl wince it was so loud. “Yeah, no – drive was fine. Listen, I need your help.”

\--

It was the most uncomfortable conversation Rick had ever had with his Mother, and _yes_ – that did include the sex talk. Because his Mother never really knew what he got up to in the woods with Daryl Dixon, and letting her see through the small window his questions created was both nerve-wracking and terrifying to endure. 

_“Spider bites don’t do that, Ricky,”_ Rick’s Mother said sadly, fear lacing her words as she openly worried about her son’s whereabouts. _“None you’d find in the swamp in Georgia, I’d have ta get the exotic animal directory from the doctor’s office for those symptoms. What did you boys get yourself into?”_

“My mom says it’s not from around here,” Rick told Daryl loudly from the kitchen, who was grinding herbs in the living room to help clear the wound until they got further instruction, doing what he knew best instead of sitting around fidgeting. 

“That’s cause it ain’t a real spider,” Merle hollered, but his words were starting to slur – both from the exhaustion, and the liquor he had been drinking to battle the pain in his hand. The bottle was almost gone, but it only barely took the edge off. 

“Merle’s right, yer Ma might not be abl’ta help us,” Daryl called back, finishing up the paste and trying to clean the gaping ulcer in the top of his brother’s hand. “Feel like I need gloves ta handl’ this thing.”

“Screw you,” Merle said sluggishly, barely enough energy to say a remark at all, which might have been more alarming to Daryl than the puss leaking from his hand.

“Where are Colby and Ryan?” Rick asked, suddenly noticing the absence of the twins, one alive and the other not so much. The house was no brighter for their lack of presence.

“With Pa,” Daryl answered lowly. “Hopefully killin’ som’one.” 

_“Okay Rick, I’m looking through here but the only things that come close are some tarantulas in the Caribbean and South America. How long has it gone untreated?”_

“I don’t know – almost a whole day probably,” Rick answered, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. 

_“Well, only a larger spider’s venom would act that fast,”_ Rick’s Mother muttered down the phone. _“You know we had something like this, a couple months ago. A man came in with chest pains and muscle spasms, his pet spider had bitten him while he was feeding it. It had been – oh where’s that file – an… Indian Ornamental Tree Spider. Christ he had nine different kinds. Did something like that happen?”_

“No, Mom, they don’t have any pet spiders,” Rick answered, dragging a hand down his face and rubbing at his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “Mo- _Mom_ , focus – please? What’s treatment for those kind of bites?”

 _“Anti-venom, mostly. Icing the wound to keep the swelling down, a lot of antibiotics to decrease risk of infection,”_ she answered, obviously reading straight from the textbook. _“Rick, if it’s that bad he needs a hospital.”_

“I know, Mom, but we can’t. We have to work with what we can here.”

 _“Okay,”_ the older woman sighed. _“Just – make sure his blood pressure doesn’t raise too much, and that he’s breathing okay? Even with spiders here in the South there’s always a risk of cardiovascular collapse.”_

“Alright – thanks,” Rick said slowly, contemplating asking his next question. Because no one who heard it, on either ends of the line, was going to like that he asked it at all. “I just – have a quick question, how would –“ he couldn’t get the words out, heaved a deep sigh, and asked as quietly as he could into the receiver. “How would I amputate a hand, if it came to that?”

 _“Rick you are NOT cutting off that man’s hand,”_ his Mother shrieked at him hysterically, and Daryl’s eyes snapped over to him as well. _“There is absolutely no reason, a spider bite doesn’t kill flesh that quickly or in that large an area.”_

“I know, just – please? Just walk me through it so I know,” Rick pleaded, already knowing it was going to come to that, even if he seemed to be the only one accepting that fact. His Mother didn’t know any better, though, and Rick could _hear_ her pacing on the other end of the phone. 

_“I can’t believe I’m even doing this –“_ there was some more shuffling, Rick’s heart about to beat out of his chest while he waited, until a few more pages were flipped audibly and his Mother began again with a deep sigh. _“Okay. First you set up a tourniquet so he doesn’t bleed to death, but you need to make sure blood can flow through the rest of the limb so there’s less risk of gangrene. Make sure that you are able to stop the blood flow on the wound, and have something that can break through the bone depending on what you’re usin- you know what, no. You would HAVE to go to a hospital, to get the stump cauterized, he will pass out from the pain and they won’t be able to sew his hand back on. Rick this is permanent, and if you even THINK you might need to cut off his hand you do not take no for an answer and you drive them to Savannah General – do you understand me?”_

“Yes ma’am,” Rick lied quietly, making mental note of the steps she had mentioned. His heart aching at how easily the deceit slipped from his lips, and how easily his Mother believed him. 

\--

It was around the corner, down the thin hallway where no light reached, that Rick was able to convince Daryl that his plan would save Merle’s life. But not without a fight, the other absolutely hell-bent on finding a solution that would keep his brother with all his original parts. Storming down said hallway towards his room, about to rip it apart looking for a book with a spell or summoning or _something_ that would help. But there was no _time_ , and Rick chased after him when Daryl tore down the thin hallway to tell him that. He had just snagged his arm, the darkness hiding them enough Merle wouldn’t see them, and pulled him back until he could corner him against the wall. He was lucky he didn’t get a black eye for it, because Daryl’s resolve to even deal with the situation was thinning rapidly.

“Daryl, stop!”

“I gotta do somethin’ – I can save his hand.”

“Daryl – ” Rick grabbed his hands, not letting Daryl pull away from him. “ _Daryl_. You called me here, and we’re not going to let Merle die. But – we have to do somethang. Fast. We don’t know how much time is left before its too late.”

“We can’ jus’ cut off his hand!” 

“Yes we can,” Rick told Daryl sternly, quietly, making sure Daryl’s eyes were locked on his as he spoke. But the redneck just shook his head, turning away and ripping himself from Rick’s grasp, running his shaking hands through his hair before his back hit the wall and he slid to the floor. “Daryl, he’s strong enough – right now – but he might not be later.” 

Daryl’s lips were pressed thin, eyes averted stubbornly, skin practically crawling physically with twitchy agitation. Rick had seen it many times before, but even the infamous Dixon family rage wasn’t going to get them out of this one. Daryl was minutely shaking his head, a mirror of Rick’s actions earlier. “He ain’t gonna die,” Daryl insisted, eyes shimmering in the narrowed slits they’d become as they glared up at Rick. “Toughest son’vabitch I ever met, my brother. Ain’t no one gonna kill Merle but Merle.”

“Right now the only thing killing Merle _is_ Merle,” Rick grumbled. “Yer brother is also the most _stubborn_ son’uva’bitch that _I’ve_ ever met.” He shifted to sit on the ground next to Daryl, lowering himself down slowly – but close enough to bump shoulders, knock knees, press all along Daryl’s side to remind him how _there_ he was. Solid and real, and not going anywhere. Dixons’ weren’t the only stubborn assholes in White Oak, Georgia.

“I’m here to help,” Rick said, the two close enough the quiet words were kept just in the space between them. “You gotta let me help, Daryl.” Those striking pale blue eyes cut a look at him, without his bangs Daryl had nothing to hide behind but the walls of anger and hostility that he had built up during the past few months. And those walls were crumbling in Rick’s presence, vulnerable and so unsure that all Rick wanted to do was comfort. Pull Daryl close and kiss him with everything he had, make it all melt away until there was nothing but the two of them. 

But that would destroy what little resolve Daryl had left. He didn’t need comfort, he needed strength. So when Rick held onto the hunter’s neck, Daryl looking back down and swallowing a shuddering breath – he didn’t lean in for a kiss. Instead he pulled him close, his forehead pressed hard to Daryl’s, breathing the same breath, grounding and profound. Holding on and silently reminding Daryl that he was never letting go. 

“We gotta do this,” Rick told him, knowing the deep spoken words were _felt_ more than heard, because it only took another beat of silence – another shared breath – for Daryl to nod against him in agreement. Sad and defeated, scared in a way he would only ever let Rick see, but ready to face what was about to happen next. 

\--

Daryl tied his own belt around Merle’s forearm. It was the same belt he had used when he’d been stabbed during the resurrection ritual last summer, and no one mentioned it – but he probably used it more for good luck than anything. Luck was something that was regarded very highly in Voodou, luck and tradition, and strength in family – so Merle must have chosen to take it in that sense instead of as an insult. Rick knew that the man couldn’t have sat up to take his own belt off if he tried, and wouldn’t have let Rick and Daryl help him. 

Merle flexed the muscles in his arm, trying in vain to move his fingers, but they barely twitched at all. His hand was rotting, the stench of it made Rick have to swallow a couple times to keep from dry heaving, so instead he drummed his fingers on the handle of the axe in his hands and let Daryl tighten the strap of leather until they were sure it would hold the blood flow. Each one of them was nervous as shit, and still tense from the shouting match they had to just endure. Merle didn’t trust Rick to cut off his hand and not miss, hell Rick didn’t trust himself that much either, but Daryl couldn’t do it – he said he could, and if it had just been him and Merle he would have, Daryl was tough and would always do what was needed. But Rick knew what it would do to him, if Daryl was the one that mutilated his brother, and he had to look at his work every day and relive the act. So Rick would do it for him, because he would always look out for Daryl. And eventually, Merle conceded as well. If nothing else, Merle would always look out for his little brother too. That Rick knew for a fact. 

“Are you ready?” Rick asked, breaking the silence as all three of them stared at the black hand rested on the coffee table, the decaying flesh starting to become visible on his fingers as it flayed the skin.

“No,” Merle sighed heavily, angrily, glaring at everything. “Jus’ hurry up an’ do it.”

They tried to weigh down the hand with books to keep it in place, but Merle started cursing up a storm, “It fuckin’ burns, man, yer killing me here!” 

“God this is gonna suck,” Rick murmured, only imagining how much Merle was going to holler and scream once they actually cut off the appendage. Daryl only nodded, and settled on the other side of the table, held on to Merle’s wrist tightly and pulled his arm straight out. Rick caught his eyes, immediately alarmed. “No-“

“Just don’t get my hand too, come on,” Daryl urged him. And damnit, Rick did _not_ want to do this.

 _“Fuck!”_ he paced back, running his hands through his hair, gave himself three seconds to freak out that he could potentially main his boyfriend, then turned around and accessed everything with fine point precision. He needed to aim for the wrist, his Mom said to cut through the joints there. “Put yer hand further back, don’ need to cut that much off.” The slightest twitch to his narrowed eyes was as good as a pained wince for Daryl, but he did as he was told with only a firm frown on his lips, holding on to the decomposing black flesh and making Merle hiss in pain again. Rick needed to move fast.

He set the edge of the axe on Merle’s wrist where he wanted it to go, the blade sharp enough after Daryl grinded it outside earlier to make a slight cut in the skin. After a practice swing he realized he needed to be on the other side, repositioned himself and tried two more fake swings. With a pause he contemplated warning Merle, and he sent a look to Daryl in question – Daryl always knew what he was thinking, and vice versa when they were out in the woods, they had the same thought process, drew the same conclusions based on reason and common sense. Even now, they understood each other beyond the barriers of words. So with Daryl tightening his grip on Merle’s hand and turning his gaze to the appendage, Rick used every ounce of adrenaline fueled strength he could find, and swung down. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him that it came off in one swing, the hatchet was heavy and sturdy, and the Dixons’ used it often to butcher the deer they hunted. He had seen Merle decapitate those animals with just a few precise swings, straight through flesh and bone and flesh again out through the other side. But when he had done those, the animal had already been bled out, so the spew of blood was more of a shock than he anticipated.

Merle didn’t scream right away, it seemed like it took a full few seconds for the pain to even hit him. Daryl had fallen back he was pulling so hard on the hand, and he had time to run to clean his hands so he could help before Rick or Merle even reacted. 

What followed was a blur of blood and frenzied movements and Merle’s pained cries. Rick had enough sense about him to drop the axe and grab the towels they had brought in, shouting at Daryl to make sure the stove was hot enough over Merle screaming and hollering bloody murder. The white towels bled red quickly, Rick’s finger’s slick with the excess as he tried to keep pressure on the wound while Merle’s whole arm shook in shock. Daryl was at his side after a few moments that felt like hours, Merle reduced to pained breaths through gritted teeth, and the two of them helped haul the large man to his feet and drag him into the kitchen. 

Rick would forever remember the smell of burning flesh, his ears ringing as Merle _screamed_ and beat on whatever was near with his other fist – the wall, Rick’s back once or twice though he held on tight despite the pain. Even kicked at the stove as they cauterized the stump as best they could. Daryl wasn’t even watching, though he helped hold Merle’s arm in place – Rick couldn’t have done it on his own, Merle was too strong – and only let up when Rick did. Letting Merle launch himself across the room, away from the hot stovetop, to kick at the wall so hard he punctured the drywall. 

Daryl had backed up until his back hit the opposite wall, once again using it for support, his hands covered in Merle’s blood and shaking, breathing heavily and watching his brother as he used every last bit of endorphin-fueled adrenaline on the walls of their kitchen. And Rick was watching Daryl, though he realized he didn’t need to, the younger Dixon able to hold himself upright and together even through the worst of times. He wouldn’t fall apart until later, when Merle couldn’t see him. At that moment he waited, let his older brother use the last of his strength and anger, before he stepped forward and made him sit down in the abused kitchen chairs. They had prepped this to a tee, Rick was proud to say, some balm made for healing burns ready and waiting in the fridge. Daryl snagged it, along with a beer that he cracked open and slid across the table to his older brother.

“We ain’t got nuthin’ stronger!?” Merle snapped, exhausted and in agony and royally pissed off, but he downed the drink none the less. Daryl applied the balm and wrapped the stump quickly as Merle bitched and whimpered – an automatic response to jerk his arm away from one of the people who had just taken the appendage off overpowering his movements. Daryl just glared at him, little heat in the stare, every time he had to re-pin his arm down to get the bandage wrapped properly.

He had to remove himself, letting the brother’s have their time, so Rick returned to the living room, using one of the bloodied towels to pick up the rotten hand. There was blood sprayed across the already stained carpet, spattered in a pattern that would forever tell the story of what happened there. And there wasn’t much Rick could do about the soaked in marks, so he gathered everything else – the hatchet, the bowls, the towels drenched in red, and brought it all into the kitchen. The bowls and hatchet went in the sink, clattering against the rusted steel, but everything else went in the trash.

“I can still feel it,” Merle said weakly, the tendons in his arm flexing like he was once again trying to move his fingers. Trying to make a fist, trying to flip them off, trying to do anything – but there was nothing there to see. Just the blood soaked bandages and the smell of burnt flesh. 

“C’mon,” Rick said in the silence that followed, coming up to him and helping the older man stand. “Let’s get you lying down, I’m sure there’s some shine here somewhere with yer name on it.” 

\--

Dark fell fast this early in the spring, night coloring the sky in a swift and bruising punch of purple and blue as the sun hid beyond the horizon. The damp swamp air turned chilling outside, soaking into your bones if you stood in the fading light for too long beneath the Live Oaks and Spanish moss. Rick had to walk outside a few times to escape the suffocating fog of pain and exhaustion that hung heavy inside the Dixon house, lethargic healing with small electric pulses that Rick was beginning to recognize as spiritual interference. The spells and herbal mixtures Daryl had been using accented with blessings from the Lwa that really were _all_ around them, weaving in between them wherever they went, always watching and always trying to push their influence on them when they felt it necessary. They were energies that should always be acknowledged, because they always acknowledged you – whether you knew about them or not. 

The early spring air was a cold and relaxing balm to the chaos they just had to endure, so when Rick went back inside and eventually got Daryl to retire to his bedroom he made sure the window was once again open – letting the cool night into the room, brushing against their skin and dissipating some of the tension in the silence. 

Daryl had settled on the mattress, Rick following suite but still giving the other some space. He curled a leg underneath him and tugged the redneck’s arms from where he had them crossed across his chest - causing rust like stains to dust his already ruined sleeveless shirt - until he had one settled in his lap. The other still didn’t speak, didn’t really look at anything except Rick’s movements in a very detached way – and Rick let him, trying to just take care of him until Daryl reemerged from the fog he had disappeared into. 

He meticulously wiped the blood off of Daryl’s hands, careful to get between his fingers, the splatter up his forearms, focusing intently on his task and giving Daryl a moment to himself. The other hadn’t wanted to leave Merle alone, had stayed with him for hours after they had finally got his heart rate back down and confined him to the couch once more, too afraid something else might go wrong while he was away. But after one of the nurse’s gave them more instruction on clean up (because Rick was not asking his Mother one more thing about amputation) and assured them after the day had passed that Merle was out of the woods, Merle kicked them out. Rick didn’t blame him; Daryl hadn’t ceased his panicked routine of spells and herbal remedies to help the healing, drawing on the walls, staring at the cauterized stump, and going back to digging through his books before starting all over again. Rick had to practically drag Daryl out of the room, until Merle started throwing stuff with his other hand. Luckily his aim was shit now, it hadn’t been his dominant hand that was saved. 

They were lucky they had the flattop to cauterize the wound, that despite Merle’s blood being replaced with cheap beer half the time that he was in perfect health, that he was already looking better with the decaying hand removed and his body having a chance to heal. So much could have gone wrong, Rick could have hit the arm wrong, Daryl could have not tied the tourniquet tight enough, Merle could have bled out in the Dixon living room – and the two boys would have been the ones that killed him. They should have gone to a hospital, should have let a doctor remove Merle’s hand, someone who knew what they fuck they were doing. 

_“It’s not tha’ simple,”_ Daryl had once told him, back after Ryan had died and been brought back, the ghost of the Dixon lot that haunted everyone’s shadows and nightmares. _“When somethin’ happ’ns like that, b’cause of a curse, we can’ jus’ go to a hospit’l. Cruses spread like fuckin’ fire in a hay field, wh’n ya try ta stop ‘em on yer own – ‘sides, none’a my fam’ly could get help ‘n a public buildin’, all kinds’a red flags’ll go up. Cops swarmin’, start snoopin’ round here again, Pa can’ have that. Rather kill us ‘imself than risk it aga’n.”_

Rick loathed that man, hated him more than he had ever hated anything or anyone in his entire life. Old Man Dixon deserved a fate worse than death for all that he’d put his sons through, the people around him, the town and lives of everyone he’d ever touched. He was a toxic poison that was slowly killing the one person Rick loved the most, and Rick could see it so vividly as he watched Daryl finally fall apart silently in his own head – away from his brother’s prying eyes – a shell of the young man that felt so alive under his fingertips just months ago. Every time Rick had to leave, he always returned to a worse situation than the last, and it scared him to death. This war, that they were obviously fighting and had been for months, was something Rick wasn’t sure he was ready to see. He was sitting on the sidelines, the equivalent of being stuck in the medical tent helping the wounded and only seeing the destruction of what had been happening in the emptiness in his friend’s eyes. Even Merle had lost a touch of that fire, that streak of fight about him that was so _ready_ to make their enemy bleed for the family he loved so fiercely. Dixon was using his sons as soldiers, without a care as to what damage it left behind.

“He’s going to be okay,” Rick heard himself say, quiet words in a Southern drawl that soothed away some of the emptiness in Daryl’s face. He blinked slowly, pale blue eyes flickering towards Rick for a moment as if seeing him for the first time, but still not speaking. “Those cuts’ll heal right up now, so he’s going to be fine.” Rick finished wiping the blood away from both of Daryl’s hands and arms, his own hands traveling up to inspect the exposed skin on his chest, his neck, careful to clean the small flecks of blood that had landed there from the splatter. He wanted to ask what happened to Merle, had it been an ambush? Had he been doing business and they were attacked, tricked by someone they trusted? Or did Merle rush in, half-cocked like always, and gotten so in over his head he had to retreat? 

But instead he traced the edge of Daryl’s jaw with the damp cloth, clearing away every last trace of red staining his skin, the touch electric to his fingertips that left a buzzing elation racing through him. His mind muddled and fuzzy, every thought fizzling out to nothing as he once again got lost in the stark lines of Daryl’s face. How the shadows traced his cheekbones, how his eyes glowed in the faint light, the small beauty mark next to his mouth that Rick wanted to kiss. Trace with his lips, soft and warm, until he found the other’s mouth and tasted the unmistakable taste of Daryl Dixon. He wanted to sink beneath the other’s skin, drown in his essence, and remember what it’s like to be home. It took everything in him to turn away, lower his hand, and avert his eyes – Daryl was in shock, he needed time. Needed to return to himself, before they both did something that they might regret. 

But Rick was jostled from his thoughts as Daryl’s hands found his, pulling him back in and locking eyes once more. He looked more aware now, intently searching Rick’s face for something important, and as Rick got lost in the other’s face – he saw how Daryl’s eyes had blown out wide, in what must have been a reaction to his own. Heat coiled and struck fast like a snake deep in his core, drowning in that pale blue gaze that always held too many emotions to name, and Rick could only stare for a moment before Daryl was leaning in. At first just brushing his nose against Rick’s, nudging them back into place so they slot together like puzzle pieces, the all too familiar position almost akin to muscle memory. He pressed forward with warm, barley there kisses that had Rick melting, the sensation reminding him of the first time. God it had been so long, his heart beat hard and fast like a hummingbird trapped in his chest, elation clouded his head until he thought it might float away like a balloon, and his skin buzzed so intensely he thought he was vibrating. All it took was the smallest of touches, pressing back and tasting the seam of Daryl’s lips with his tongue, that had the younger man surging forward – the perfect balance of rough and pliant that had need and want flashing through Rick hard and sudden as lightning strikes. Their mouths moved together perfectly, wet and hot and sinuous in a dance well remembered from months ago. Almost a lifetime ago, and far too long to go without the raw, electrifying taste of Daryl Dixon. 

Then Rick was being pushed back onto the mattress, Daryl crawling over him, powerful shoulders rolling beneath tan skin as he prowled forward low and dangerous. Eyes blown black, mouth kiss-bitten and open – panting with want, and he carefully leaned down to lick at the base of Rick’s throat. Tracing open mouth kisses along his neck, over his jaw, the stubble on his face leaving behind a rough, raw sensation that made arousal coil heatedly in Rick’s abdomen before shooting up his spine. He tried to keep his groan and moans smothered, biting at his lips and panting so hard his chest heaved – Rick’s own strong hands grabbing the front of Daryl’s sleeveless shirt and hauling him up for another kiss that was mostly open mouths and panting breath, biting and tasting and melding together into the perfect storm of hot and wet. Rick’s leg had curled around Daryl’s thigh to pull their lower halves together, and ultimately ended up being used to roll the younger Dixon underneath him. Daryl bucked up, chasing the friction and whimpering softly in the back of his throat, which Rick swallowed he had crawled so far inside the other’s mouth.

Rick was hard as a fucking rock, having to tear himself away from Daryl’s absolutely _sinful_ mouth so he could _breathe_ , leaning against his shoulder as he ground down in a rhythm that had them both gasping for air. Daryl was clawing at the sheets and Rick’s over heated skin, back arched and rolling his own hips to match Rick’s, the heated friction so burning hot it was settled on the precipice of painful and _oh so fucking good._

It was when a louder sound, almost a shout, cracked from Daryl’s throat brokenly that Rick looked up, fingers on Daryl’s lips to quiet him. “Shh,” he uttered quietly, making a spark of panic reflect in Daryl’s eyes, forgetting who else was in the house with them. “It’s alright, just gotta be quieter,” he said to ease the young man, but Rick got too distracted. Daryl was a disheveled mess, sweat slicked and writhing, wrecked in the best possible way, and Rick’s fingertips at Daryl’s lips were making it so much worse. Wet, soft, fuller from being kissed swollen, and if Daryl so much as _tasted_ one digit with his tongue Rick would lose it. They were both so close, chasing an orgasm that was going to leave them raw and chaffing at the rate they were going, so he whispered low and promising, “It’s alright, I’ve got you.” God he’d been waiting for this, they had never gotten this far, but Rick wanted to watch Daryl fall apart beneath him, watch the bliss cross his face and euphoria over take every nerve ending. He wanted to bring him that with his hand, his mouth, and possibly more if Daryl would ever let him – but fuck, all he wanted right now was to get Daryl’s fucking pants off. He knew his gaze was hungry, leaving a searing trail down Daryl’s heaving chest, zeroed in on where his shirt had ridden up and the dusted trail of dark hair traveled past his navel to the front of his straining jeans. Rick’s mouth watered at the sight, Goddamn he wanted to eat the other alive. 

“Fuck, what I want to do to you,” the words dripped from Rick’s mouth like sin, soaked in want and lust, husky and drawled so low they rumbled in his chest. He couldn’t help but lean down, lap at the V of Daryl’s hips, taste the over-heated skin, salty with sweat and the heady smell of Daryl’s arousal filling every sense. He felt Daryl gasp, the muscles in his abdomen going rigid, and Rick traced those too, hands landing on the hem of Daryl’s pants and his fingers traveling along the heated fabric until he found the buttons clasping the front.

“W-Wha-“ Daryl couldn’t seem to catch his breath, panting and his hips rotating just a little into Rick’s chest and clavicle he was so far down the other’s body. “Wha’ you mean?” But Rick was lost in the smell and taste of Daryl, drowning in it, sucking on a hipbone as he settled further between Daryl’s legs. It wasn’t until Daryl’s legs locked on his torso, holding him in place that he realized Daryl had been trying to talk to him. Had been saying “Wait, wha’ do ya- stop jus’a – Fuck Rick!” At the word ‘stop’ Rick had froze, ceasing what he was doing like an electric shock. He had a split second of not moving, eyes snapping up to find Daryl’s, before a boot was in his chest and kicking him back. Luckily he didn’t go flying, and before Rick could say anything Daryl was already scrambling back, out from underneath him until his back hit the wall. 

“I’m sorry,” Rick said on reflex, though he wasn’t sure what had just happened. Daryl was looking panicked and still flushed with arousal, and looking so conflicted and confused it made Rick’s heart hurt. Anger was starting to stir in those pale blue depths, and Rick was so struck in that instance by what just happened it knocked the breath out of him.

“I ain’t-” but Daryl’s words got caught in his throat, he couldn’t seem to finish his sentence, and the walls were slamming back down into place.

“I wasn’t gonna-” Rick pushed himself up on to his knees, trying to catch his breath and start again.

“Daryl I’m sorry, I wasn’t tryin’ ta do anythang like that. I was just…” but he stopped himself mid rant, breathing slow, knowing the red flush on Daryl’s face was now from embarrassment and anger at himself than at Rick. Berating himself for freaking out like that, he had started saying something, _I ain’t-_ and Rick knew the rest. He had heard him say it before, scream it at his brother multiple times when the teasing got to be too much and that old bred Southern fear was restored anew. _I ain’t like that! I ain’t nobody’s bitch!_

“I was just trying to get yer jean open,” Rick said calmly, explaining carefully and leaving all traces of anything else out of his words. If he didn’t get this cleared up now it would do more damage than he even wanted to imagine. “I know ya don’ want – none of that. It’s fine, hey – ” Daryl had turned his head away, back pressed against the wall and legs drawn up to his chest, but Rick wasn’t going to let him close himself off. Not tonight. Ignoring the flinch that wracked Daryl’s body as Rick touched his face, turning it back so he could see him again, Rick prepared Daryl with a pause and a conveying look that he wasn’t mad (as Daryl probably feared) before leaning in and kissing Daryl again. Smooth and meaningful, not going any further than reminding him how much Rick cared about him. “It’s okay, I should’a said somethang,” but Daryl was shaking his head, not looking in Rick’s eyes again.

“Ain’t yer fault,” his drawl low and gruff, sad and angry.

“Ain’t yers either,” Rick told him. “I ain’t ever gonna make you do anythang you don’t want. An’ you don’t have’ta force yerself either. I feel good when you feel good,” he finished huskily, nuzzling Daryl’s nose again. “And we were feeling pretty damn good, I think.”

“Ruined it,” Daryl muttered around his thumb nail, biting it nervously.

“Just means we’ll have’ta try again tomorrow,” Rick answered with a leering smile, the half hearted glare Daryl sent his way helping crack the tension that had settled across his features. “Now come here,” he whispered as he pulled Daryl back down on to the mattress, maneuvering him until they were laying face to face. Entangling them together with legs and arms and shoulders. He tried to press their foreheads together again, the most comforting thing for Daryl he had found, to level out the playing field in case Daryl was still uncomfortable. But they had barely managed a shared breath before the younger was curling inward, head rested against Rick’s throat and chest, and Rick wrapped his arms around Daryl on instinct. He buried his nose in the short strands of hair, inhaling the scent that was the woods and sweat and cigarettes, damp Earth and engine oil. Blood and incense. But he held on tight, the manta of “I love you” playing in his head but never escaping his lips. 

His actions said more to the Dixon than those three words ever could.


	19. Anywhere But Here, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So y’all might have noticed some changes to the summary and tags, I’m sorry for such a long wait but I’ve made a decision with this story that’s going to affect everything that’s about to happen. It now says there is only one chapter left, and that is because there _is_ only one more, for the first part of this story. I know I’ve been saying that there’s only 2/3 of the fic left and I realized that I have underestimated the length it’s going to take to tell the rest of this story. That being said, Southern Discomfort has become a trilogy – and you have all been reading Part 1. The next time I post a chapter the title of this story will be Southern Discomfort: Cursed, the series will keep its original name. 
> 
> I didn’t come to this decision lightly, I just realized as I was writing this chapter and the next that everything was starting to wrap up like it was almost over. Which confused the fuck out of me, because it is far from over – and then I realized that _this_ story, where they are growing up as kids in the swamp was almost over, and we’re about to move on to the next one. Where they are still growing and learning and surviving as best they can, but they aren’t kids anymore. 
> 
> As for Part 2, I do have a question for all of my readers that I would love to hear your feedback on. I will begin working on Part 2 immediately after I post the last chapter this month. My question is this: would you have me continue posting as I am, or work and get as much done as I can and start posting later so I can do more frequent updates? I’d probably spend the summer writing it, and begin in August if that sounded okay. I know I won’t be able to _finish_ Part 2 by then, but I’d get a good portion of it done. 
> 
> I’m actually really excited for this, I hope you all are too. Okay – so this chapter. You’re welcome, first of all, because I wasn’t going to add any smut in this story and I caved because these damn teenage boys decided to deal with hormones and shit. It’s not graphic, for those who are weary, but I hope you enjoy it either way. I know it’s been a long time coming. It gets crazy at the end, graphic violence warnings, but we’re getting to the climax. It’s all going to come together - _finally!_
> 
> So sorry for the long A/N but this is big, all of it, and I hope you all understand why I’m making the changes I am. I love you all, every hit and kudos and comment and those of you that have only recently just sat down and read the whole damn thing. I’m constantly amazed by the response to this story and I’m so glad I’ve got to share it with all of you. I hope you will stick with me for the rest of this very long fic as the other parts come up. There will be a happy ending for Rick and Daryl, no matter what I put them through hold on to that. 
> 
> The_Royal_Gourd and IJustWantedYouToNeedMe tag-teamed this beast and I’m so grateful to both of you for taking it on <3 Thank you so much. Everything else is all my fault, but I hope you enjoy it :)

Rick would forever remember being kissed awake the next morning, it was soft and warm and feather-light, the careful curve of Daryl’s body trying not to disturb his sleep. It was just a small press of lips to his, still lightly parted and breathing deep and slow, and was gone after a stretch of intimacy that Rick felt all the way in his toes. He sighed deep, waking up rapidly when the warm feeling of long limbs and a strong chest started to pull away, and Rick couldn’t help the small sound of disapproval in the back of his throat at the movement. 

Blearily blinking his eyes open, he tried hard to focus through the blur of sleep as Daryl settled back down from his attempt to get up, watching him in the soft morning light that tinted the whole room a warm orange hue. Usually Daryl was up this early, and had planned on leaving Rick alone to sleep on his mattress – in the mess of pillows and blankets that smelled so strongly of the other man Rick really was able to drown in his essence. His pale eyes never left Rick’s face, propping himself up on one strong forearm to better watch the other while they waited for Rick to fully wake up, not once looking away even when Rick’s hand abortedly reached for his face. Fingers finding the scruff that dusted his cheeks, stroking the untrimmed goatee on his chin that blended in with the rest.

“Yer growin’ that fast,” he mumbled sleepily, fingertips messing with the patch of hair lazily.

“You don’ like it?” Daryl drawled quietly in question, words deep and rumbled, like a jungle cat purring. And the deep base reverberated against his skin, causing a smile to cross Rick’s face slow and sweet, happiness filling his chest swift and fully until his whole body buzzed with the sensation. 

“Nah,” he drawled back, shifting to stretch out his sore limbs, “jus’ mad I can’t grow anything like that yet.” 

“’m sure you’ll grow yer mount’n man beard soon ‘nough,” the slow gruff words could have been mistaken for teasing, the smile on Rick’s face turning cheeky as he resettled on the mattress on the floor. About to tell him to shut up but the words dissolved into quiet chuckles that shook him softly, snickers drowning away any words until the moment was gone.

Though the comfort stayed settled in his chest in a warmth he found hard to contain and not express, Rick could see the way Daryl was watching him. Careful eyes tracing his face, probably his curls and his dark lashes, the lines of his neck and chest by the way the pale blue eyes slid down his form as smooth and slow as molasses, and it made something set alight inside him. Sparks of lust but also trace bits of confusion, because Daryl wasn’t watching him hungrily – there was something sad about his lingering gaze, something regretful and shameful and wanting all at once.

“What’s wrong?” Rick asked quietly, those light blue eyes dragging back up to lock deeply with Rick’s clear blue ones. He stared at Daryl in concern, trying to read the expression that should have been so easy to understand without the redneck’s long locks to block his vision. But without the obstruction the younger man kept himself more well-guarded, harder to see behind the walls he had built to keep everyone else from seeing him. But if Rick had to put a word to the expression on Daryl’s face, he would call it apologetic, borderline disappointed, with a look of lost opportunity plaguing the depths of his gaze. And then Rick could guess. “Is this about last night?” 

Daryl averted his eyes, which was as good as an answer for Rick, not letting how Daryl’s long fingers twisting into the stray curls on Rick’s head distract him, weaving the strands around his tan digits and getting lost in the motion instead of speaking. He wouldn’t say sorry, he’d said it the night before, and Rick wouldn’t want him to – would have reprimanded him if those words had been muttered quietly from Daryl’s lips. Which was probably the main reason the redneck didn’t say anything in that moment. But the fact that he was still tearing himself up about his reaction from the night before, when they had been pressed so close and had been so ready to test waters that they never had before, tugged and twisted at Rick’s heart painfully. 

His hand came up to where he felt Daryl playing with his hair, pulling his fingers free of the dark curls and interlocking their fingers carefully, slowly, rubbing his thumb along the side of Daryl’s palm soothingly until his skittish gaze settled back on Rick’s fond one. 

And he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the side of his lips, too lost in soaking in the sight of the other young man to really notice what the details meant. How Daryl swallowed hard, every movement of muscles and tendons in his neck showing the motion obscenely. How that spark of arousal ignited in those gorgeous pale blue eyes like thunderstorms brewing in the Georgia sky, disappearing behind the eclipsing black of his pupils growing larger with each passing moment. How the nervous shifting of his limbs could have also been from the uncomfortable and teasing warmth of want, lighting up his nerve endings one by one in a blinding array like Christmas tree lights – just the thoughts of the pleasure to be had speeding up his heartbeat. Rick made room for Daryl as the younger climbed over him, hips sliding perfectly in the V of Rick’s legs when he spread them wider, knees up and feet planted. So when Daryl leaned down to kiss him, slow at first and still with the hesitation that always kept him out of Rick’s reach to begin with, Rick could roll his hips upward into Daryl’s and ignite the passion that was always sparking and lying in wait between them. An intensity like an old propane leak that just needed the smallest hint of a flame to set ablaze and burn the whole fucking house down. 

Their lips moved slow and sensual, hot and deep, Daryl’s tongue shyly pushing past the seam of Rick’s lips to trace against his until they were panting from the intimacy, the closeness, so fused in contact it was like their skin was melded together. The purposeful roll of Rick’s hips wasn’t just the frantic bucking and chasing of friction from the last few times, it was a slow grind that guided Daryl’s hips with him when the younger pressed back down and thrust against him heavily. They moved together this time, rolls and thrusts that had them gasping for air, kisses becoming frantic and open-mouthed and Daryl growing bolder. Grinding down harder, tracing his lips and teeth and tongue over Rick’s neck and jaw, knowing it made Rick lose rhythm and buck up against him. 

Rick had lost track of his hands the moment Daryl had settled between his legs. They had slid up his muscular arms at one point, marveling and tracing each curve and dip of his biceps, feeling the powerful strength beneath his skin as he kept them locked to hold himself above Rick. His fingers had woven into the short strands of hair as well, holding him in place when Rick decided to push Daryl’s tongue out of his mouth with his own and instead delve inside the redneck’s to trace and molest the wet muscle there with vigor. They had gripped at the fabric on his chest, pulling it this way and that to get at the skin underneath, feeling out every hard plane and sharp edge of Daryl’s chest and stomach, catching on hipbones and _feeling_ the movement of his thrusts into Rick’s own pelvis. It had his head falling back, just riding the waves of pleasure and the movements of Daryl’s body against his, drowning in the heady sensations and getting drunk on the stimulation and awakening hormones that coursed arousal through him in extreme doses. 

His fingers danced along the waistband of Daryl’s pants, the fabric slipping lower and lower and only staying on without his belt from his straining erection, but it gave Rick free rein of the trail of hair that dusted from his navel to below the line of his jeans. Tracing that line led his fingers over the bulge in Daryl’s pants, straining through the fabric and heated to the touch, and Rick’s whole hand and fingers splayed around that swelling. Groped heavily through the thin fabric – and Rick could feel the pulsing of blood from the outline of his dick, fast and hard and matching the hammering in Daryl’s chest pressed tight to his own. Daryl gasped against his neck, losing himself and mouthing wet and helplessly at Rick’s skin as he bucked into Rick’s hand, quiet gasps and whimpers straining in the back of his throat and his whole body beginning to tremble with pleasure that wracked his frame. Rick’s fingers on his other hand were quick, undoing the buttons and fumbling for the zipper on Daryl’s jeans as he stroked at Daryl’s dick through his pants slowly and purposefully and had Daryl pushing up off of him. Powerful arms holding him up but still connected at the hips, watching Rick as Rick watched his own hands, finally getting Daryl’s jeans open and pulling down the loose fabric and –

He wasn’t wearing any fucking underwear.

Rick wasn’t sure he could breathe, he knew he couldn’t think straight, barely recognized he had pulled Daryl’s jeans far enough down his hips that his hard erection had sprung free. It was there in front of him, red and leaking precome onto Rick’s own stomach where Daryl’s wandering hands had pushed the intrusive fabric up. _Fuck…_ he’d fucking _dreamed_ about this, his hand wrapping around the flesh – hot and velvety to the touch – and realizing with a heated blush that Daryl was a little thicker than himself. His thumb swiped over the head, Daryl’s whole body jerking and quivering at the motion, and when Rick did an experimental stroke and pull Daryl’s arms almost gave out, the groan that escaped him anything but quiet. 

But fuck was he beautiful. 

He rolled them, Daryl moving easily with the motions, and without breaking stride Rick kept up the careful strokes, precum slicking up his hand and making it easier to keep momentum going. Daryl arched at the touches, moved with his strokes and hips rolling up to meet Rick’s hand, mouth open and panting and red from mouthing at the light scratch of Rick’s morning scruff across his face and jawline. Neither was thinking of a damn thing except the contact of skin on skin, the electric charge that danced along their over-heated skin and kept them writhing against each other, clothes being tugged off in quick and urgent motions so they wouldn’t break contact for more than a second. Rick’s shirt was first, having to let go of Daryl’s dick to pull it over his head, but Daryl had been the one tugging at the hem until it was ruffling his dark curls in the swiftness of yanking it off, Rick’s own hands grasping Daryl’s shirt and pushing it up as well. Leaning down and trailing kisses up the skin it revealed as he did so, only barely registering the long raised marks beneath his swollen lips and salivating tongue, old scars that he tasted just like every other inch of skin on Daryl’s perfect body. The slight hesitation that stuttered Daryl’s ministrations for only a moment melting away at the worship Rick was giving his chest, traveling up until he could push the sleeveless T-shirt over Daryl’s head and toss it to the side. His broad chest was fucking edible, collar bones the most addicting thing to taste and drawing the best little groans out of the redneck, his hips abortedly rolling back up against Rick’s once more. Daryl realized before Rick did that Rick’s jeans were still on too, and then he was undoing the clasp and zipper as quick as his shaking hands could – panting and about to reach his hand deep inside past Rick’s waist line when the sound of a door shutting down the hall made him stop. 

They both froze, held their breath, hearts beating faster from both the lustful passion and the terror of being caught rutting in Daryl’s bed – but when no footsteps were heard Rick caught Daryl’s eyes and held them there. 

He looked so scared, a different kind of scared that spoke of strength and a willingness to fight if it came to it, and of a wisdom because – they should be scared. They should be fucking terrified. Not even Merle could protect them if Old Man Dixon found his youngest son with his hand down another boy’s jeans, kissing him the way they had been all morning. They literally wouldn’t make it out of the house alive.

But Rick was so damn tired of letting Daryl’s Pa dictate their lives, and he wasn’t going to let that man take one more thing away from the boy he loved so dearly.

Spasms and tremors still shook Daryl’s frame, residual effects of being shocked out of such an intense moment, and though his dick was a lot less interested now that they’d been thoroughly scared shitless, it didn’t stop Rick from covering the other’s body with his own. Slow and careful, as if anyone could hear them inside the room, and not paying any mind to the flinch that wracked Daryl’s body when Rick leaned in for a kiss. Only pausing, eyes shining in determination in the low morning light, staring straight into Daryl’s confused pale ones, and that was all it took for them. Daryl knew him, knew that look, but had never seen it when paired with such passion that Rick held in that moment. Rick only looked away when he leaned further down, pressing his lips warm and soft to the hollow of Daryl’s throat. 

Daryl inhaled sharply, whole body going stiff he held himself so still, and Rick lowered himself down until they were touching again, every bit of warm skin against his own feeling on fire. He traced his lips along those collar bones that were now littered with red marks from his rough cheeks and he sucked at the skin, grazed his teeth over them lightly in a way that always made the redneck arch into his mouth. Rick ground down again, slow and rolling, and this time the gasp was accompanied by rough hands on his shoulders.

“Pa’s up,” Daryl managed to whisper, Rick only glancing at him when he said those words before he was leaning in again and this time leaving short hot kisses up Daryl’s neck, the other melting into his frame despite his protests. “He’ll b’callin’ for me.”

Nosing at the hair that was starting to trail over Daryl’s ears, lips finding spots behind his ear and the side of his face that had little sighs and groans escaping the redneck without his consent and making a smile play at the edges of Rick’s kiss-bitten lips. He pressed them to the shell of Daryl’s ear, chest to chest and hips to hips now, Daryl’s hands having drifted to his waist as if to push him off – but at the rate they were going, that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. 

“We best be fast then,” he whispered heavy and husky, words spoken right again Daryl’s ear, and the eruption of pleasure that must have bloomed in Daryl rippled through his whole form in a full on shiver that shook against the boy pressed so close to him. His whole body rolled up against Rick’s, the older boy grazing his teeth and nipping at the curve of Daryl’s ear until the redneck’s head was thrown back. The grind that followed was sensual and rough, in sync and had Rick tucking his head down too, panting against Daryl’s neck and throat as they rutted and lost themselves in the movements. Daryl’s heavy breaths were coming faster and faster, high pitched sounds breaking with each hitch, increasing in a crescendo that had Rick grinding down harder and faster. 

He reached between them, both their jeans open and the loose flies catching on each other and locking Rick and Daryl’s hips together – but not giving them the connection they wanted. Rick took his own erection that was harder than he’d ever fucking felt it before, and sensitive enough that the slightest touch made him dizzy, as well as Daryl’s all in one hand. The heated flesh pressed together, both bucking into Rick’s hand and slicking up the thrusts with combined dribbles of precum had Rick’s mind fizzling out to blind pleasure and heat and had Daryl’s voice cracking in his pants with fucking dry sobs. Face scrunched up and hands grabbing onto Rick desperately to bring them impossibly closer together, powerful hips bucking up erratically and losing himself. He was about to shout, make some form of loud noise, so Rick was there, covering his mouth with his own and kissing the life out of him. Daryl could barely kiss back, because in the next moment his whole body jolted, curving up and arching into Rick’s hard body above him and crying out – which Rick smothered with his own lips. Kissing at every inch he could reach, his lips, the small mark beside his mouth, swallowing any sound and feeling the warm release on his hand that only made it easier for him to stroke himself faster. 

Daryl’s whole face was blissed out, slack and in such euphoria – so fucking beautiful – it didn’t take more than a few more strokes for Rick to come too. He had buried his face in the junction of Daryl’s neck and shoulder, groaned long and low into the skin there to muffle the sounds, the curve of his spine arching into his own hand and his hips against Daryl’s warm and pliant body. Every limb buzzed, their skin seared together and every curve accommodating the other – like this was how they were supposed to be. Against one another, fitting each dip of muscle and angle of bone, breathing heavily and just drowning in each other’s essence. Presence. Energy. In that moment Rick couldn’t do anything but lift his head, see Daryl blink his eyes open, and then fall into the other man. Lips tangled together with tongues and teeth, slow and open and no longer tasting the electrifying taste that was uniquely just _Daryl_ , but the collective taste of _them_. Their combined flavors now something so addicting Rick never wanted anything else on his tongue. 

He didn’t remember wiping their release on his shirt, or using it to also mop up the mess on their stomachs, just how he wrapped Daryl up in his arms and held him to his chest as they both came down from their intense high. The morning going on outside the shaded window, the warmth and the quiet blending in with their even breaths and steady heartbeats, chasing away everything else outside the room but the two of them.

For as long as Rick would live, that moment would be what he imagined heaven felt like. 

\--

“Merle sit yer ass down!” Daryl hollered, moving about the dusty kitchen trying to make some semblance of food, and shoving his overly-large brother out of the way when he stumbled in his path for what must have been the fifth time in 10 minutes. 

“Chill baby brother, no need’ta get yer panties in’a bunch,” he chuckled, snagging another beer from the fridge and some jerky from the top cabinet with his one hand. “I’ll let’cha get back ta cookin’,” and he staggered back with a woozy look that he was probably enjoying a little too much. 

“Ya aren’t supposed to be drinking on pain killers,” Rick told him lazily, peeling potatoes with what was probably a hunting knife at the kitchen table, his clear blue eyes watching as Daryl bristled with every instance his brother knocked into a cabinet or clattered dishes or pans in his search. Or stumbled for the hundredth time, not seeming to be able to keep his footing. “Sit down before you fall down,” Rick said firmly, pointing to the seat across from him, only a little surprised when Merle did as he was told. He really shouldn’t be mixing that stuff, he was acting way too drunk for just a couple of beers. Rick had wanted to get the older man on antibiotics or something for the injury that should still be festering and sensitive, but whatever Daryl had done to the wound had rapidly healed the burned flesh and rejuvenated Merle’s system. So when Rick had brought it up – the two going through the infamous zip-lock back that was always kept in the center-console of the pick-up truck, filled with an array of medications – Daryl had just shook his head at him in dismissal. There was no way Merle was going to stop drinking, anyway, so mixing the antibiotics with the alcohol he’d consume in one day was a one-way ticket to the liver damage that could finally kill him. The only thing the balms and medicinal remedies Daryl gave his older brother _didn’t_ have was pain relief, a balance once again needed to counter the healing in his body, so for that they could turn to the prescription container Daryl had fished out the car that morning. Though Rick eyed it warily and forced himself to keep his hands in his pockets, to avoid picking it up and seeing that there wasn’t the name ‘Dixon’ printed on the label. Or to find out they were expired. But Merle was in much better spirits now that the pain was lessened, as well as loopy as all get out and drinking considerably less in quantity than he normally would. 

“Ain’t that cute,” he drawled with just a few slurs, loudly and only a little disoriented. “Bein’ all domestic like. Why don’cha cook fer me like this, baby bro?” Rick couldn’t help the smile teasing the corner of his mouth as the brothers bickered back and forth, Daryl lashing out comments and Merle letting them slide off with laughs and barbs of his own. He’d missed this so much, it was like coming home – and what a world it was that the run-down Dixon house could be considered home to him? It was anything but perfect, but he loved every bit of it – messy as it was – and the brothers that lived there even more so. 

Every time he caught Daryl’s eye – blue crashing with paler blue intensely, watching the other with such a fond expression – Daryl’s face would turn just a shade of red that was impossible to hide without his long hair, looking away in some form of embarrassment that Rick knew better than to take offense of. It was endearing, really, as long as it was just the three of them.

The twins had been dead asleep all morning, returning sometime after Rick had dragged Daryl into his room the night before, which was shocking to Rick because he didn’t think Ryan _could_ sleep. But he had been curled up next to his brother for hours, eyes closed and breath even. Rick thought he might be faking it once or twice, but the other man never moved a muscle. Colby was out like a light, and the two had taken over the pull out couch where Merle had resided the night before – leaving the oldest Dixon brother with Rick and Daryl for the majority of the morning/early afternoon. 

And then there was Old Man Dixon.

He came and went, quiet and angry, had only cursed under his breath when he saw the mutilation that had to be done to his first born in order to save his life, and momentarily sent a glare Rick’s way before heading outside once more. He paced from room to room with this fretful fury, always exiting through the kitchen door and returning through the front, it was nerve-wracking to witness. He and Daryl shared a look later that afternoon when Rick noticed that the man’s large hands were clenched into fists most of the time, or handled his knives in a nervous tick that was more menacing than worrying, and always had this air that he didn’t know what to do with them.

Because he didn’t have a drink in his hands.

It shouldn’t have scared Rick that Daryl’s Pa wasn’t drinking, but it did – that had been his key character trait for as long as Rick had known him. Or known _of_ him. Drunk and belligerent and dangerous. But it put him on edge, how sharp and observant the man was when sober. He noticed _everything_. And the last thing they needed was for Daryl’s Pa to start asking questions about them. Daryl could have the best damn poker face in Georgia. But if he was ever caught off guard – he could be read like an open book. 

It wasn’t long after Merle passed out with the twins, and Old Man Dixon had made another round through the kitchen – practically wearing a hole in the floor – that Rick shared another nervous look with Daryl, and they were high-tailing it out of the house as fast as they could. They barely made time for Rick to shove his feet into his boots and for Daryl to swing his crossbow over his shoulder before they were sliding out the front door, movements as quick and silent as whispers, darting down the steps and across the gravel lot towards the parked vehicles. They couldn’t take Merle’s bike without Will Dixon seeing his son with a boy riding bitch and pressed to his back, so they climbed up into Merle’s pick up and sped out before the Old Man could come around the side of the house and see them leaving. 

It took maybe 30 seconds after turning out onto the backroads for the tension to fly out the open window with the Southern breeze, loud and whipping by so fast everything seemed miles behind them as soon as Daryl's street was out of sight. The redneck had lit up a cigarette at a stop sign, before turning down the roads that led nowhere and proceeded to blow through every single one he passed after that. Rick couldn’t believe how _relaxed_ Daryl looked - after their morning in bed, the ease of family with Merle in the kitchen, sparsely dressed (for the redneck) in a threadbare black wife-beater and overly loose pants, a cigarette in one hand and the steering wheel in the other with just the open road in front of him. His life and last name once again left in the dust as they put miles between them and the Dixon lot. It all looked so _good_ on Daryl Rick couldn’t help but stare, bask in the lightness that radiated from him, more warm than the Georgia sunshine and so freeing that Rick almost never wanted it to end. 

This should be his life, their life – not what lay behind them. Not the darkness and the fear, the violence and blood that coupled with anything that had to do with their family ‘business’, or the war that Daryl’s Pa had raged with the man with the Florida license plates and the condescending grin.

Rick would give anything to take Daryl far away from it all and never come back.

\--

The swamp was damp and muddy from the rain that had been relentlessly pouring the past few weeks before Rick had returned to White Oak, the ground soft and wet and the air thick with the smell of moss and wet tree bark. It was something that soaked into your skin, dampened your clothes, and immersed you back into the swampland of Southern Georgia. Rick and Daryl did just that all afternoon, trudging through the forests and getting their shoes stuck in quick mud more than once, laughing about it more than anything, hunting a little bit when Daryl came across a trail that was more prominent. But the surrounding nature was something that helped block them from everything else that had been plaguing them for the moment, and they felt twelve years old again – getting lost in the woods where it was just _them._

It was as evening was threatening to color the sky, starting to tint it and change the cloudless expanse to a subtle water-colored array of gradients, that they made it back to the pick-up truck and decided they didn’t want to leave quite yet. It took Rick all of a split-second to decide they weren’t going anywhere, to drop the tail gate with a hard tug at the rusted catch, and then climb into the back – mud and all. Daryl’s eyes had softened a fraction, from the furrowed worry at having to go back to his house and not knowing what was waiting for them, and instead climbed in beside Rick until they were laying side by side. They were slicked in mud, flecks from their shoes kicking it up as they darted between the trees speckling their clothes and arms, Rick even had some on his hands, face, and neck from tripping once when his boot got stuck. They were messy, and smelled of swamp mud and sweat, but the peace that settled over them as they lay in the quiet forest with just the trees above them in the lightly colored sky was so _profound_ it resonated in their bones. It was easier to breathe, out in the swamp, though after their tired muscles had a moment to relax Rick felt himself getting antsy. 

Too many memories of the morning, of the night previously, playing through his head like a broken record for him to sit still – or keep his mouth shut.

“If we could leave,” he began, feeling Daryl stir from his meditation-like doze beside him and turn towards him without looking at him, “go anywhere in the world, where would ya want to go?” It was a soft question, a notion that played at the edges of his mind that had no basis in their reality. But it was a thought that if they _could_ , Rick would take Daryl and drive as far as he could away from this small backwoods town in Georgia. 

He felt Daryl’s eyes on him before he noticed Daryl had turned his head, and when he did his gaze caught the pale blue eyes that were so strikingly like the pale sky above them that his breath tightened in his chest. They almost glowed they were so bright, searching and curious and cautious all at once – but so open when looking at Rick that his heart threatened to burst at the seams. He looked to be contemplating, whether it would be why Rick would ask such a question – or searching for an answer – it was hard to pin-point. But he finally came up with something after his eyes got distant in memory for a moment.

“Flor’da, probably,” he drawled quietly, shifting a bit on his back so he got more comfortable in the truck bed. “Back down to th’coast, get a place by the Voodou Distr’ct.”

“On the ocean?” Rick smiled, trying to picture Daryl out on the sand with the waves and no trees. It was hard to imagine. “Wouldn’t ya miss the forest?”

“It ain’t in Miami or nothin’,” Daryl scoffed softly, scrunching his nose at the mention of the big city – of which Rick could _not_ picture Daryl being anywhere near. “Lots’a swampland around there, gators and shit everywhere – lots a snakes too. It’s kinda perfect, ‘r close ‘nough.” 

“Ya never told me about it,” Rick prodded gently, a small smile on his lips as he watched Daryl start to slide back into that comfortable mind-set where they could talk about anything. He was only like that with Rick, and every year he struggled to let go of the inhibitions that held him back – how he kept his words locked up tight to himself, because no one wanted to hear them anyway, except for Rick. Rick could listen to Daryl talk all day, loved when the redneck would just _let go_ and speak at length, the few times he had been lucky enough to witness it had been when Daryl was explaining the different aspects of his religion – of his life. The stars at night above Georgia, the Lwa and how they were woven into every living thing, how to trace tracks through the woods. Daryl’s gaze was descriptive beyond words, could write volumes with how he inspected and saw the world around him, and it was amazing during those rare moments when he could find the courage to speak at length about them. It was beautiful, even, and Rick knew he could die happy knowing he had gotten just the smallest glimpse into the bewitching mind of Daryl Dixon. 

The younger man shrugged, an awkward motion while lying down, and Rick could almost physically see him struggle to not shy away from the subject. To remember that this was _Rick_ and if there was anyone he could tell something to it was his best friend, he didn’t need to be worried about being talked over or brushed off or laughed at. Months of those reactions had trained his first instincts to clam up and not bother. “No’ much ta tell,” he tried, but seemed to know right away that the statement wasn’t true, twitches to the side of his mouth like he might smirk or smile teasing the features of his face. “Voodou district was – weird. Welcomin’ even, tho’ugh lot’sa the folks down ther’ didn’ take to us hangin’ ‘round.” Daryl huffed at that, as if it was something expected. Dixons weren’t allowed most places for long, they stirred up too much trouble. 

“You were there a while weren’t ya?” Rick continued to ask quietly, nonchalantly, trying to ease the details out of his boyfriend slowly.

“’bout a month,” Daryl muttered, picking at the dirt under his nails and not looking at the sky anymore. “Stay’d w’th this wom’n, old’r than Nain’e but she didn’ look’it. But she was nice ta me, an’ could put Merle ‘n his place – think he fell ‘n love w’th her for a bit,” he trailed off, and Rick kept watching his profile as Daryl’s pale gaze returned to the darkening sky. “Learn’d a lot from her.”

“Sounds like it,” Rick drawled sincerely, Daryl turning to him at the words, and as much as Rick wanted to ask about this woman that Daryl so obviously respected – he couldn’t find the words. Daryl’s pale eyes and warm skin were soaking in the wash of colors from the setting sun, the last rays tracing orange and gold along every strand of hair and sharp angle on his face. He barely had a moment to admire the soft curve to his thin lips, appreciate the sparse hair around his mouth and across his cheeks that aged him so beautifully, before he was leaning in and kissing the man he had fallen in love with. Slow and languid and so strong that it knocked the breath out of him when Daryl pressed back, how steady they moved together – well practiced movements that Rick would never tire of, could get lost in, sinking deep into the other’s warmth until they were entangled once more. Daryl’s rough hands sliding along his limbs and in his hair, grasping the back of his neck and angling his head just right so he could better trace the inside of Rick’s mouth, while Rick was too busy trying to reach every inch of skin beneath Daryl’s shirt and map out the exact shape of his hipbones with his fingertips. Dancing along his waistband just like before, that always so easily _slipped down_ off his narrow waist, really it was a surprise it took Rick so long to get Daryl’s pants off in the first place. He had every intention of making up for lost time at every opportunity they had. 

Like now, in the bed of a pick-up truck so far away from another living person that the two could get lost in each other. The only sounds surrounding them being the comfortable music of cicadas and crickets, the calls from the swamp, and the wet sounds of their fevered kissing and panting breath. 

\--

Sweat still slicked Rick’s warm skin beneath his clothes and clung to his wet curls, but that didn’t stop him from staying right where he was. Practically laying on top of Daryl, his head on his heated chest, the humid night air flirting with the chances of rain and keeping their intimate air and smell of sex hanging heavy around them. His lips felt raw, lightly puffy from being over-worked and he still had the bitter taste of Daryl’s release on his tongue – coating the inside of his mouth, lingering in all his senses, a constant reminder that what he just did really happened. He was happily sated too, Daryl not hearing any of his protests that he didn’t need to reciprocate – though he hadn’t used his mouth, not so comfortable to attempt that, and Rick wasn’t sure if he would’ve lasted more than a moment if the other man had – flipping them over and using rough, calloused hands to tip him over the edge. So far away from everything, without the looming presence of his family, Daryl was able to let go of all the things holding him back. His eyes had gone so dark, so intense and electric with want and the need to touch and taste and take that it shot trails of fire down Rick’s spine and tore through his veins. 

Their give and take, like waves breaking on the shore and then retreating with the pull of the tide, was intoxicating to experience. How they moved and rode each other’s waves of pleasure – taking turns in relishing in throws of arousal from the ministrations of lips and tongue and teeth against their flushed skin, and basking in the other’s own ecstasy as they explored and got lost in the exploration of touch and taste. It was fun, too, how easily the tables could turn – no one was always in charge, the change in control and power flipped in exciting turns that were either rough or pliant. A quick roll that had them banging limbs and heads against the hard metal bed of the truck, or sweeping motions as one maneuvered the other. When Daryl would use his strength to over-power Rick’s ministrations and take a turn trailing his lips over exposed skin wherever he could reach, or when Rick would do the same and Daryl would land harshly on his back – Rick rising to his knees and pulling on Daryl’s belt loops until he was dragged over flush against him. Adrenaline spiking in the mix of pleasure, the roughness and tender touches going so hand in hand it all melded together into the most wonderful blend that had no concept of time. 

Daryl was idly playing with his hair, curls wrapping around his fingers as he dragged them through the strands, and the calm that had wrapped around them was only distracting enough to last until the final traces of light escaped the sky. Rick could tell Daryl was thinking hard about something, and he hoped it had nothing to do with what they just did. Or what Rick just did. It had been something that was on his mind a lot lately, played out in his fantasies at home – over and over in his mind until he had painted a vivid picture of how he wanted it to happen. What it would be like to taste Daryl there, to feel and watch him fall apart, but nothing he had ever imagined had come close to the mess of barely caught breaths and deep groans and the feeling of those same fingers in his hair holding on and riding out Rick’s motions. Fuck his neck even hurt from the repetitive motion but he couldn’t find it in himself to care in that moment, and he wouldn’t take one second of it back. But if Daryl had finally come down from his own daze of bliss and realized that he really wasn’t comfortable with what just happened – Rick didn’t know if he could handle that after everything. It wasn’t like he’d ever done anything like that before, it was something very intimate and vulnerable and those deep rooted reminders that what they were doing was _wrong_ in almost everyone’s mind planted like weeds in his thoughts and threatened to over-take everything beautiful that had grown between them. He swallowed hard and tried to breathe past the tightness in his chest, hand curling around Daryl’s narrow waist and pulling him closer if possible. 

“What’s wrong?” he heard himself ask, quiet and careful and masking his own fears so well Rick almost didn’t know it was him that had spoken the words. 

The tenseness in Daryl’s muscles rebelled against where Rick was leaning against his chest, solidifying and ruining the comfortable position Rick had been lying in, so he gave up and rolled off of the other. His hand instead finding Daryl’s and intertwining their fingers, shoulders still pressed tightly together and one leg each tangled up. Daryl had looked down to where Rick was tracing his knuckles while still keeping their fingers inter-locked, and Rick had turned to watch the motions too. A hint of unease had tainted the air around them, and Rick suddenly wasn’t so sure he wanted to have whatever conversation was about to happen.

He had to lick his lips first, swallow hard like Rick had done, but Daryl’s quiet drawl spoke deep and soft after a moment’s hesitation. “Why did’ja ask that, ‘bout leavin’?” Rick knew his heart was starting to beat faster, both from fear and from anticipation, but the fear was out weighing everything. Rick knew Daryl couldn’t leave, could never leave as far as the redneck was concerned – he had too much to do, too much to fix, and even if he didn’t there were no options for him – but _God_ if Rick wanted him to. 

“Was just thinking,” Rick admitted slowly, shaking his head a little bit but not looking away from their hands. “Curious, more than anythang.” He could feel the tenseness radiate from the younger man, waiting for Rick to cut the bullshit but not wanting him to at the same time. Rick sighed deep, head lolling to the side and once again not able to take his eyes off Daryl. It took a long pause, a stretch of silence where so many unspoken words passed between them, for Rick to gather the courage to pluck a few from his constant stream of thoughts and worries. “I hate coming back to see you like this,” he almost whispered, the words so startling to the redneck his gaze snapped up to Rick’s. “It’s always worse than before, every time. I don’t want to come back and find you dead.”

“But ‘m fine,” Daryl tried to tell him, confused and on the verge of defensive, eyes more expressive after the past few hours of being so open with Rick and free of any of his normal reservations.

“This time ya are, but what if next time it’s you beat up on the couch instead of Merle? We just-” he almost choked on his words, had to calm himself and not let Daryl’s steadily rising panic affect him too. He needed to bring everything back down, but it was so hard after the past 48 hours that had been an emotional and physical whirl-wind of blood and love and fear and sex and everything wonderful and all the horrors that should not be the norm for them. But it was, it all was, and he wanted to say that Merle just lost his hand. They cut off his fucking hand. Things were starting to get bad for them, no one could deny that any longer. But that would escalate everything and Rick knew that would lead them nowhere. He needed to say this, before it ate him alive. “I worry about you,” he told Daryl, voice low and quiet, but sincere and calm as well. Steady as he could keep his words without letting them tremble and shake like his whole body was threatening to do. But he breathed deep, let the calm he wore like a second skin over-take all his senses, and kept his clear blue eyes locked on Daryl’s pale ones. His own fortification bleeding over to the redneck faster than Rick had anticipated, the older teen physically seeing him check himself and fall back to center. 

“Ya don’ need to,” Daryl answered back, eyes narrowing a little as he peered at Rick in the dark. “I can take care’a m’self.”

“Comes with the package,” Rick tried to smile, only succeeding in turning the corners of his mouth up as he tilted his head at the other young man. “It’s what happens when ya love someone.”

He hadn’t said the word ‘love’ to Daryl since the day the other teen had tried to break up with him, for his own damn safety, which really should tell them more about the situation they were getting themselves into. The danger was real, it was violent and messy and left them already scarred and bloody. But Rick couldn’t stay away, couldn’t leave Daryl to this any more than he could ever hurt the other man, it would literally kill him. He fucking loved him, so much it was painful sometimes.

And Daryl looked like he had slapped him in the face from the words he just spoke. 

Rick couldn’t just let it go, not like that – Daryl deserved more than that. More than Rick could give him.

“I love you,” Rick said, so quiet it was almost a whisper, but the words were stark and real and left devastation in their wake across Daryl’s face. Rick didn’t expect him to say it back, the redneck could barely form words during normal conversations, but he had no doubt Daryl loved him too. He could see it every day, in the way he always cared for Rick – put the older boy first, made sure he was safe and aware when surrounded by the precarious world he lived in, made sure he was happy and did his best to keep him that way, would lead him and guide him in everything they did. From the throws of the swamp to the dark halls of the plantation house, Daryl never led him astray, never left him to fend for himself, and always had his back. Rick attempted to do the same, but always paled in comparison to the boy who had given Rick his everything – since the day they met in the swamp. Rick wanted to give him everything back, all he had to give, if only Daryl would have him. 

“Why?” was the single word that escaped Daryl’s mouth, still so emotionally wrecked and confused and the panicked hints of something so strained it could tip to anger or tears with the smallest touch. Emotions balanced on the edge of a knife, razor sharp and threatening to cut so deep, but all Rick could do was smile at his friend when the question was registered as not rhetorical.

“Because yer you,” Rick answered honestly, and he hoped Daryl could see how much he adored him, how much every inch of Daryl was perfect in Rick’s eyes and that every reservation the redneck had about himself was so unwarranted. “I’d have to write a book ta explain it to you.” He could barely blink as his eyes bored into Daryl’s own, finally _saying_ it made the emotion course through him and drown out everything else, and it was so undoubtedly true Rick didn’t know why he had held back for as long as he did. He’d been in love with Daryl for a long time, had loved him for as long as he could remember. Maybe he always had, and he’d just been too young to understand.

Rick didn’t require any more answers than that, didn’t need to shower Daryl in the affectionate words that resonated through his head like gunshots, that he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. Instead he closed the gap between them, resting his forehead against Daryl’s own and closed his eyes. Breathing deep, letting the tension that still hung heavy ease just the smallest bit. He was still worried that one day Daryl would not be in one piece when he came back to White Oak, Georgia. 

“Just please – keep yourself safe,” Rick muttered quietly, the words caught in the small amount of space between them. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” The mere thought was enough to shoot pain through his chest, his heartstrings pulling painfully and restricting his breathing, God he wouldn’t be able to go on if something happened to Daryl. The redneck was nodding against him, his words probably caught up in his throat like Rick’s were, the things he wanted to say and spill between them too much and Rick couldn’t bring himself to voice them. “Promise me,” he managed to say, demand, eyes still shut tight and not daring to open them again.

“I pr’mise,” Daryl rumbled, slurred with so much emotion it hit Rick right in the chest, that promise meaning more to him than any love declaration ever could. 

\--

It was well into the nighttime hours when Rick and Daryl returned to the Dixon lot, darkness settled among the trees and gravel comfortably in the warm Southern air. They made their way towards the house, sharing looks shyly and fondly in turn. Rick wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch the redneck, a hand on his arm, fingers tracing along his wrist – they had been so tactile the past 24 hours that even the few feet of space between them felt like too much. They drifted together as they walked towards the run-down tin house, shoulders bumping softly when their paths collided and smiles tugging at their lips though they didn’t do much else. Not knowing who may be looking out the windows, or what was going on inside the Dixon house.

The inside of the house was dark and still, only the sounds of the TV crackling faintly and attempting to show a picture of some old re-runs in the mess of white static that washed the walls, Merle and the twins looking up as the two teenagers entered the house. 

“Well look who decided ta show up!” Merle hollered, laughing drunkenly – probably still mixing beer and his pain killers – though he looked a lot better than he should. Having only lost his hand 36 hours previous, the stump that was still wrapped wasn’t bleeding, and the slashes up his chest were healed so well they were almost blending in with the scars on his skin that matched his baby brother’s. Rick had to do a double-take, inspecting all the wounds that should still be gaping and leaving the older man in serious amounts of pain, and was once again struck hard by how _real_ everything the Dixons were involved in _was_. Not just the danger, the threat to their lives each and every day, but the power of Voodou as well. There was no way Merle should look like he did in that moment – practically fighting shape and pounding back cheap beer like it was any other Thursday. But he was, Daryl had worked wonders once again, and the steady increase of Rick’s heartbeat was an astonishing mix of admiration and fear for what the redneck could do. What he was capable of. Suddenly it was easy to see why everything seemed to target the younger Dixon when nothing was really his fault personally. He was just the biggest threat.

That scared Rick shitless to realize, but also made him proud as fuck.

“Where did’ja go all day?” Colby asked, more drunk than Merle and leaning heavily on his twin brother, who sat as still as a fucking stone – spine relaxed and a quiet tilt to his head allowing his still eyes to inspect Rick and Daryl. It made Rick’s skin crawl, the little reflections of _knowing_ that sparked in his mud-brown eyes, because Rick knew without a doubt that Ryan could see way more than he ever let on. There was something off about him, something strange, other-worldly and capable of things Rick wasn’t sure he could fully grasp. He wasn’t sure Ryan could grasp them either, but at least he was curious instead of angry – with Colby by his side Ryan seemed better able to center himself in a world so drastically vivid in comparison. “Ain’t seen ya sinc’ – since-“

“If ya woke up b’fore noon ya’d seen us jus’ fine,” Daryl grumbled, picking his way through the mess that was their living room and kicking at Colby’s feet until there was room for him to pull up a crate and start to work on unwrapping Merle’s stump. “Where’s Pa?” he asked his brother, while Rick also maneuvered Colby’s outstretched legs with his muddy boots until he could sit on the ground with his back against the couch. There wasn’t much space between the couch with the three older men on it, the piles of crates and the card table that was to this day still stained in red splotches, and the various debris in the small space that was just from pure laziness to never put anything away. It felt lived in, among the mess, Rick’s mom would have had a heart attack on sight but Rick had grown used to it. 

“Sulkin’ in the kitchen,” Merle grumbled around the lip of his beer can. “Been waitin’ on somethin’ all damn day, kept fuckin’ snappin’ at me wh’n I ask’d ‘bout it.” Daryl made a non-committal grunt in response, Rick watching him check the stump over now that the bandages were off – turning what was left of his brother’s wrist this way and that to see if the cauterization had held. And it had, miraculously well, the burned skin was barely scabbed over, freshly grown skin appearing faster than any natural medicine could ever hope to – even with a skin graft and surgery. Rick had to swallow, fight off the wave of astonishment that felt way too much like nausea, once again feeling like he was so out of his depth that he really didn’t belong there. Despite all evidence to the contrary. 

He tore his gaze away from where Daryl was working, not being directed to the TV but to movement from the kitchen, Old Man Dixon still restlessly pacing and heading back to the window every few minutes. Rick felt a frown start to pull at his face, not able to look at the man for long – it left a bad taste in his mouth and made something rageful simmer dangerously beneath his skin – but he was acting so strange. And being sober, aware, was creating such tension inside the house that Rick knew everyone was on edge; Daryl wouldn’t even turn around to look at him, though his Pa was making little to no noise in the kitchen. Rick wondered who taught who that skill, or if it was something that the whole family had to learn – being deep out in the woods like they were – in order to hunt and survive. It was unnerving, how the large man who was usually so clumsy and rough could be as silent and swift as his sons. Rick had always seen them as exact opposites. But Dixon hadn’t built his empire on nothing, he supposed. The man had to be more capable than he let on.

Old Man Dixon moved before the lights shone through the broken windows, bright headlights traveling across the dark walls as cars pulled down the steep incline into the lot, but they were moving fast. Far faster than anyone who would be approaching them for friendly or business reasons, or an arrest warrant, and anyone else who mattered was already there in the house. Rick’s head snapped up at the lights, and Daryl whipped around as well, both shooting to their feet when Old Man Dixon moved faster than a man that large had any right to. Barreling through the house and out the front door with the strength of a hurricane, gun in hand and the sound of it cocking loud and distinct in the quiet house. Tires screeched and gravel hit the side of the exterior walls before the sounds of car doors opening and loud voices carried indistinguishable through the layers of tin and Rick’s heartbeat pounding in his ears.

The gunshot was clear as a fucking bell though. 

Every single one of them hit the ground, Merle fucking barrel rolling off the couch and reaching for the shotgun hid underneath it, while Daryl tugged on Rick’s shirt and started moving in a half crouch half run down the hallway. Rick followed him, not able to help looking back at the older men, who shot forward and away from where bullets were tearing through the tin walls, and Dixon was using the doorframe for cover. They didn’t have to wait long, the whole incident lasting only a minute or two, before the cars were pulling back up the lot and Dixon was out the door with Colby and Merle on his heels. Ryan had made it halfway to the door before he stopped cold in the middle of the living room, and started to back away when the older men returned carrying someone new. Someone Rick hadn’t seen before. 

The firm grasp of Daryl’s fingers on his arm, left there from when he had been trying to drag Rick down the hall and away from the gunfire, was more grounding than anything as they watched Dixon and Colby deposit a man far older than them onto the same couch Merle had been on the other night. He had the same slash marks, the same amount of blood escaping him from wounds that weren’t able to close, the only difference this time was the lack of a spider bite on his hand – and that this man was dead. 

“ _Fuck_ that’s Buck,” Daryl muttered, his strong chest bumping into Rick’s back, keeping them close together and still thrumming with an energy to drag Rick away from whatever was happening. But Rick was rooted to the spot, unlike Ryan who kept slowly stepping away from the other man, which was _not_ helping Rick’s nerves. The gunshots had almost been easy in comparison to this terrifying tension that was building in a crescendo, dread settling heavy in his chest and stomach, threatening to crawl up his throat. He was clenching his jaw so tight his teeth ached from it, and his unblinking blue eyes tried to push back Ryan’s behavior and Daryl’s insistent presence behind him that was holding him back, because he was tracing the lines of blood and deep gashes in the man that looked to be in his 60’s. With long frizzy white hair and dirt caked to his skin in the common pattern of living in the boondocks. 

Each cut was precise, the exact length and blood stain pattern that Rick had seen on Merle – when he entered the house at 8 am the morning he arrived, and saw the man near the brink of death on the same couch. They were in too perfect a placement, too exact on the man’s body that was so different from Merle’s much larger and muscular one, that Rick’s heart fucking stopped in his chest when he realized they weren’t just close to the same marks – they _were_ the same. 

“Get back,” Rick managed to say, distinct and loud despite how the pain in his chest from the panic clawing at it made it hard to breathe, causing every single person to look at him and for Daryl to tighten his hold on Rick’s arm. Rick pointed to the old man’s chest, the slashes that shouldn’t still be bleeding, “The marks are the same!” Urgency over took his words, starting to tear at the syllables in a crazed panic. “It’s a fucking trap _get back!”_

They all shot back in time, even Old Man Dixon – who kept staring at Rick in a disbelief and anger that he was even in his house – before something happened Rick would never forget. The man was off the couch, and not in the sense that he shot to his feet alive and well, he was raised, limbs and shoulders first like puppet strings. A long knife sliding out of his over-sized jacket sleeve, reading army reserves and “Buck” in faded lettering, the handle in his fingers after a split second drop. His head wasn’t even raised, limp like a rag doll, but his arm was above his head in a motion to slice, to stab the nearest thing – before it jerked forward in the air literally right towards them.

The body recoiled back with the buckshot that tore through its chest, Dixon already reloading and not giving it another second to move again before pulling the trigger for the shotgun again. Merle followed suit with his own sawed-off, and so did Colby, the body of the man they all obviously knew still raised with his toes dragging on the ground. The bullets weren’t doing a damn thing, and Daryl was physically dragging him down the hallway and away from the dead man sent to kill them. If he hadn’t, the faint amount of light from the TV wouldn’t have been caught as Rick kept his wide eyes on what was unfolding in the Dixon living room. 

“DARYL,” Rick shouted over the gunfire, pointing with his other hand at long strings of light reflected on _something_ , connecting Buck to the ceiling. So it seemed, but they moved with the limbs, with every jerk of his shoulders as another gunshot hit the dead body, and Rick knew that was the source. Daryl knew too, and suddenly he was using his grip on Rick’s arm to launch himself in front of him and into the firing range. Rick pushed off the wall he was thrown into by default and followed not a split second behind, pulling on the long noses of the shotguns to get them pointed towards the ground and away from the youngest Dixon – long hunting knife in hand and using the crumbling coffee table in his jump to reach the strings and slicing through them. The body dropped like a sack of potatoes, heaped on the ground with blood and buckshot soaking into the carpet. All guns were trained on it, awaiting a move, and Daryl had his knife still in hand and posed to lash out at the slightest twitch – but the body didn’t stir again. 

Rick was the first to approach it, using his boot to push at Buck’s shoulder and having him roll onto his back, his face and chest a bloodied mess of meat and bone that looked more like ground beef than flesh. He stared into it, soaked in and accepted the level of violence he knew existed but had never been a part of before, and something still and calm took over what should have been fear and panic. This was _expected_ , this was their life, the family he had accidentally become a part of, and as he turned around and saw Old Man Dixon staring at him he knew they knew it too. 

But Rick also knew that whatever had just happened, it was _that_ man’s fault. Dixon knew it was going to happen, had waited all day for it. The knowing stare he sent the man only asked one thing, what was he going to do about it now? 

“Load’up,” Dixon said, drawled loud and precise without the booze staining his breath. “We end this now.” 

It was a decision that everyone was behind, even Rick – this had gone on long enough. Whatever war was being waged, whatever fucking pissing contest Dixon and Moreau had been a part of since Rick was 12 and saw the ritual in the woods, it needed to end. But Rick also knew this was the worst idea they could have. Colby and Ryan could fight, probably, Dixon was sober enough to do serious damage – but Merle just lost his hand, pain killers and Daryl’s Voodou ministrations being the only thing accelerating his healing and keeping him on his feet. Daryl shouldn’t be in the middle of it, he had a target on his back so blaringly bright that he was in danger no matter where he went. And Rick – he wasn’t even supposed to be there. 

But they had a _chance_ , an opportunity and enough will and strength in that moment to fucking end everything. So Rick would never again have to return to White Oak and pick up the pieces of whatever had been done to the boy he loved with every fiber of his being. Would never again have to worry himself sick about not being there if something were to happen to him. They could put a stop to all of it, and Daryl could once again focus on healing the scars that wrecked the small swamp town in Southern Georgia. No longer a weapon of his father’s war but the small glimmer of hope that one day the balance would be reset. Rick wanted that for Daryl more than anything, and he was ready to fight tooth and nail to get it, to make things bleed, to rip and tear and kill if need be. He was ready. And so was everyone else. 

“You too,” Dixon told him, looking him right in the eyes, as if Rick was going to give them any choice in the matter either way. Daryl’s shoulders were a solid line of tension, even when Rick nodded at Daryl’s Pa, and the darkness that clouded his features was a horrifying mix of acceptance and anger. But that didn’t stop him from leading the way out to the truck. Dixon and Merle climbing in the cab, Ryan being shoved in the middle – though Rick wasn’t sure why – and Colby climbing into the back with more weapons than he could carry. Daryl climbed into the bed of the truck too, giving Rick a hand up and steadily not looking at him as they sat with their backs to the cab. Both not thinking about what they had been doing in that same truck bed not hours before. 

Colby was on Daryl’s other side, busying himself with loading shotguns, and Daryl had one hand holding tightly onto his crossbow. Rick was pressed to his far side, and had no hesitation in carefully tugging Daryl’s nervous fingers from the gears of the cross bow and pulling them down to the side. Away from prying eyes, though the darkness would have covered them anyway, and threaded his fingers through Daryl’s. Pale eyes snapped to his, and Rick hoped his calm gaze helped reassure him at least a little bit, it was hard to tell with next to no light as the truck pulled out of the lot and started down the backroads. 

Daryl’s hand tightened on his, fingers pressing hard and sturdy into his skin, and Rick hoped to God they would leave bruises. Reminders of the amount of strength in Daryl’s hands. They leaned heavily on each other, and Rick wanted nothing more in that moment than to kiss him, but knew he couldn’t. So he swallowed, tore his eyes away, and leaned his head back against the cab of the truck. Preparing himself for whatever laid ahead of them, a battle like something he had never hoped to see, but for Daryl – _with_ Daryl by his side he would endure it with no hesitation. No resistance, and a vigor solely driven by the chance that in the morning everything would be over. Soldiers before D-day, just waiting to hit the shore, ready for the fight that could end their lives – or define them.


	20. Anywhere But Here, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the end of Part 1 - I want to thank every single person who has followed this story from the beginning. Over a year and a half ago, which is so crazy to think about. Thank you for sticking with me through the long weeks of waiting for new chapters, I'm so glad you all enjoyed the craziness and the horror and the drama and the magic. And the amazing love story that I didn't know would bloom between these two boys. Thank you so much, for every kudos, comment, subscription, bookmark. You are all truly what made this possible.
> 
> That being said, I also need to say this:
> 
> I am so sorry.
> 
> I am so profoundly sorry for what is about to happen. Please understand that this has been apart of the story before it was even a full story, it has been central to my original outline - and like I said, I didn't expect Rick and Daryl to be so _in love_ at this point in the story. Please hold on to the reminder that there is more to tell, there are two more parts to this series that will end in a happily ever after for them. But I am so sorry, this was the hardest chapter to write and I hope you all will still stick around to see what happens next.
> 
> More thanks to The_Royal_Gourd for being my rock, my muse, and my wonderful beta. I'm so sorry I made you cry darling. Alright, here we go.

Rick wasn’t sure how long they drove. The minutes stretching into hours as the truck sped over the rough roads in the dark, sometimes driving along the side roads that had a view of the highway – but never venturing onto the well-paved interstate. It was far too well lit, patrolled, and populated to get away with three guys sitting in the back with weapons in their hands. Even Rick had been given a shotgun, which now rested across his lap so he could still covertly keep his hand clasped with Daryl’s between them. 

Sometimes he could catch the muffled sounds of Merle or Old Man Dixon talking inside the truck. Though from where he had his head rested against the cabin window, he couldn’t make out the words over the constant rush of wind and roar of the vehicle and crunch of gravel beneath the tires. His heart beat steady, heavy, and harsh in his chest and ears, and he tried to make a calm seep into his bones despite the adrenaline and fear of what laid ahead of them. Daryl’s strong hand in his was a constant anchor, grounding and keeping him from getting lost in his thoughts, in the worries that something terrible was going to happen when the truck stopped. They were going to fight, actually fight, and how Rick had gotten mixed up in all this was no mystery but he knew it made little sense for him to be there. He wasn’t a soldier, hadn’t been mixed up in these ordeals and could’ve stayed clear of everything if he had wanted, could’ve waited behind and not risked his life. He knew Daryl would have probably preferred it if he had, would have been more at ease knowing Rick was safe and far from all this, but he hadn’t spoken a word of protest. He had seen what his Pa had seen, what Rick had felt, in that moment – an acceptance of the new view of this world, the one coated in sprays of blood and dark smudges of violence and hate that pressed into the skin like bruises. He had acclimated to it without blinking, had sunk into it like a second skin, and was now in the back of a truck with a gun in his hand about to go fight for a family he called his own. Was he ready to kill a man? Could he actually pull the trigger when a living, breathing person was in front of him? With Daryl at his back Rick knew he could, would do anything that was asked of him to keep that man safe – to end this horrible war that had been plaguing his life and his childhood since before Daryl knew there was a life outside of it. Rick was prepared to do anything, and was oddly okay with that thought.

But he knew it scared Daryl to death. Rick could feel that in his bones, because Daryl still hadn’t said a word.

Time stretched into this untraceable thing, the trees and swamp flying past as Rick stared at the road being left behind them, the only proof they were making any headway at all being the sliver of moon that traveled across the dark night sky. Every now and then Rick would squeeze Daryl’s hand, pressure that was always returned in kind, but it was becoming more and more real how _far_ away they were from White Oak. He wasn’t even sure they were in Georgia anymore, and that brought an inkling of fear to the surface. No one was going to know where they were, no one could come after them if they didn’t return in the morning. This was it, this was all they had. Six men in a rusted red pick-up truck with maybe 10 guns between them and only so many bullets. But they were racing forward, and there was no turning back with Old Man Dixon behind the wheel. 

They turned further into the woods after awhile beside the highway, and Rick noticed the change in landscape about the same time Daryl did, because the redneck’s hold on him tightened and something like dread seeped deep into the pit of his stomach. The overhanging trees swallowed up the road, blocked out any traces of moonlight that might have brightened the dark gravel and dirt path, and the swamp that surrounded them was wilder. It was wetter now, and more entangled, jagged edges and squirming movements from the living things that encompassed the bayou. The trees only thinned to the tall grass, taller than Rick had ever seen, shining moonlight soaked into the ground where it was wettest and where it became still-standing water, only broken up by globs of mud and tree roots and thick textured masses that looked like logs and Rick was beginning to see were actually alligators. They were in the everglades, and Rick knew in that moment that he was fucked, because he had been correct in thinking they weren’t in Georgia anymore.

Old Man Dixon had taken them to Florida, to the source, and was probably driving right up to Moreau’s front door. 

Everything in the swamp felt wicked, the further they went, blacker than black and heavy with humidity, like the very vines themselves would reach out and attack on sight. The air was hostile and prickling at his skin, over-heated in the night air but leaving a trail of goose-bumps in its wake. The land itself was home to a different kind of darkness that permeated the air they breathed and the ground they were flying over. Rick felt a strange sense of familiarity in the darkness, in the sinister feeling that was wrapping around them and setting everyone on edge, if Daryl’s rigid shoulders and Colby’s straight spine were anything to go by. Rick _knew_ it – felt it, in the faint remnants of his childhood, of the hours he’d spent staring into the darkness between the trees from the safety of his grandparents estate. It was old, and malevolent, but he _knew_ it. And it knew him too. While the others were ready to break their teeth with their jaws clenched so tight, Rick was ready to sink back and relax as if settling into a warm bath. He was wary, not trusting the sensations but allowing them to wrap around him and relax the tension that had settled between his shoulder blades. If only to calm him, and prepare him for when the truck stopped.

Because, eventually, it would stop.

The road became thinner, less gravel and more dirt and mud. It was uneven and peppered with roots that ventured out into the path, fallen branches, moss and vines, all worn into the road that was well-traveled despite its isolated location. Rick felt the truck begin to slow before the breaks started to make painful groans of protest, he and Daryl sitting up and forward at the same time, looking out as the swamp opened up around them into a vast open space and the road dropped to still water on either side. The truck jolted and shook as they traveled along a one-lane road that led to a house up on stilts, that spoke more of Voodou than Rick had ever seen, crumbling just like the Dixon house –but it felt alive in a way that didn’t come from looking lived in. It looked alive because it was _decaying_ , splintering and merging with the swamp around and beneath it, and it felt dark. As dark as the shadows that encompassed it, soaked into the cracks and crevices between the splintering wooden beams, and seeped into every inch and pore of the rotting walls. The headlights from the truck illuminated the tattered front porch harshly, a slap in the face to the sleeping demon settled among the water and trees. An intrusion that was physical and _real_ , had saturated in the air before they even stopped the truck, tangible and tasting like copper.

The truck screeched to a stop, bright lights bringing alarming clarity to the empty front porch and vacant house, the men climbing out of the truck with squeaks of rusted metal doors and the sound of boots on the metal truck bed. Rick, Daryl, and Colby all hopped out of the beaten vehicle and made their way around to the front of the house only to stop in their tracks. It only took them ten seconds to get out of the back of the truck once it had stopped, it also only took that length of time for Moreau to appear silent and solid on the front porch.

He looked different than the last time Rick had seen him, years ago in the clearing – about to seal his business arrangement with Dixons. Moreau had looked strong back then, a capable leader and manipulative as all get out, a condescending smile and a twitch to his fingers like anything he may have touched in the Dixon’s swamp could contaminate him. 

Now, he didn’t even look human.

His gaunt face and stark frame resembled a skeleton, a broad-shouldered and impossibly thin skeleton, which matched the white painting on his face. It depicted the skull that lay beneath his stretched and ashen dark skin, a few patterns in dots and symbols across the paint trailed down his neck and beneath his clothes – which also looked like it came from a deceased place. A dark suit from an era long passed, eaten away at by time and creatures alike, but still sharp and cut to fit his frame. His sunken in eyes and fraying grey hair were as distracting as the twisted frown on his lips that looked one deranged twitch from a smile, slivers of blaring white teeth behind his thin lips appeared and disappeared with blurring motions – as if his whole face was in constant motion and out of focus. In the low light it was hard to make out, but Rick knew without a doubt it was Moreau, and that this comfortable darkness that settled around him fit him better than the man he saw years ago when they pulled into the swamps of Georgia.

Rick got the feeling that Dixon knew what he was getting into, but nobody else did. This man was dangerous on a level that far surpassed the weapons they had brought with them, and it only took the few seconds that more men appeared out of the shadows that surrounded the decaying house for him to confirm that. Moreau knew they would come, knew it like he knew the sun set in the West and the dead rotted in the ground, and he had been waiting for them. Patiently waiting. As ready to end this as they had been, but it only now became apparent Moreau wasn’t done just because the fighting had gone on for so long, and had become so brutal. 

He was just done playing with his food.

The shotgun in Rick’s hands felt like a toy, he leaned closer into Daryl’s space as if to block him from the man with unblinking eyes, and tried to swallow the fear that was threatening to choke the life out of him. They were so _fucked_ , and Rick was trying really hard not to shake – or show his fear in his wide blue eyes. He was here to fight, they all were, and Rick would go down fighting if he had to – but that didn’t mean that he was oblivious to how far out of their league they were in that moment. 

He was going to die tonight.

\--

Old Man Dixon shot first – no words were exchanged, just an explosive sound in the still night when there should have been a symphony of the swamp nightlife filling the air – and the bright flash of the shot gun should have sparked a battle to start. The five young men flinched, and watched in horror as the shuddering commenced with Moreau’s form, and the bullet went right through his silhouette and hit the splintering door frame of the house far behind where the man stood. 

Another shot had the barest twitch of Moreau’s body sliding sideways, dodging it with inhuman speed and a Cheshire grin tearing across his face. And the burning cold that wracked Rick’s frame was a fear he had never felt before. 

Everything after that moved so fast he could barely keep track. The guns were _useless_ , but the twins and Merle started firing too, the rain of bullets hitting bark and dirt alike, Rick backing up and whipping around to the _dozens_ of men appearing out of the darkness – feeling Daryl’s back against his as they had weapons up and ready to fire but not even trying yet. The men moved like normal men, appeared like flesh and bone and not the unbalanced _thing_ that resided on the ruins of the old farm house. Daryl was holding himself so tense that he was shaking from the effort, tremors so faint if he hadn’t been plastered to Rick’s back then the older teen wouldn’t have felt them at all. But he _did_ , and if Daryl was scared – for them, or his family, for _Rick_ – then he knew there was no hope for this situation. He and Daryl only began firing their weapons when the surrounding men started to move in on the circle the group had created. 

Rick knew he had hit a few between the eyes, in the chest, but the bullets did nothing – in the dark night it was hard to tell if the bullets just went through them like they did with Moreau, or if there was some kind of spell and they just weren’t feeling the hits at all. The shotgun had lasted all of two seconds, Dixon hoarding all the shells, so the older teen let it drop to the ground. He emptied his entire clip from the handgun Daryl had shoved at him, reloaded it with practiced precision from the academy, and began firing again until the closest man had gotten to the point he could reach out and touch him. That’s when Rick jammed the butt of the gun into his face, quick and hard. He had followed through with another punch only to see the hits get brushed off like a mosquito buzzing in one’s face, and his vision started sparking with stars at the sharp jab to his own face that made blood flood between his teeth. He lashed out where he could, but his hits either missed entirely, like trying to fight through a fog, or they broke and splintered on skin that felt like a brick wall until he was half on the ground – a thick arm around his neck choking the air out of his throat as he kicked and bucked and tried to right himself. Or see straight at the very least, but the burn of the cold skin against his flushed hot with adrenaline and exertion was such a chilling contrast Rick was reminded that they had brought guns to a fucking magik fight – and were losing. He couldn’t even tell if the men were real, or manifested from Moreau’s spells.

The Dixons didn’t have any _weapons_ made from their Voodou practice, they used their religion purely for luck and balance, to help fuel their greed and business and make their illegal activities prosper despite how easily they could have been shut down decades ago. Daryl and Nain’e merely practiced their belief in nature and the fragile stability of right and wrong, created and grown, living and dead – the co-existence of the two planes that were so easily tangled together and the Lwa that were their gateways. Balance meant more to them than power, the way of the world than any form of greed, they were unbiased and that was how the religion was meant to be. Rick could plainly see the two extremes that should not exist in the opposing violence of Dixon and Moreau, how it wrecked and destroyed everything in its path, and how everything the two men had done was coming to this. Trying to out-smart the other, using the Lwa and the spirits to get them further and further ahead until it changed the physical-make up of who they were. Moreau wasn’t even living or dead anymore, he had been corrupted body and soul, and he defied all balance that Voodou so carefully called for. His form of religion was one Daryl had told him about before, Obeah, a Jamaican form of Voodou, that was so easily fallen into darkness. And Moreau had succumbed to it. Right on the slippery edge of defying what the balance their religion was meant for – and physically _defining_ it. 

Everyone was incapacitated in one way or another, though Merle needed three separate men to hold him down (despite the pain meds and lack of hand) and Daryl was still thrashing and lashing out against the hands that held onto him tightly. The very touch making his skin crawl, because he also knew whatever was fighting them was not _real_ , moved like smoke and shouldn’t be possible. They weren’t men at all – they had knocked Colby out cold, and had even gotten Ryan’s undead form pinned to the ground. 

And then there was Old Man Dixon, who didn’t have anyone holding him back, but was rooted to the spot with empty shotgun in hand. It only took a moment of ceasing his struggling for Rick to see that Dixon wasn’t staring Moreau down, he literally _couldn’t move._

Moreau moved like a spider, all legs and joints and carefully posed balance, fingers tangled together in front of him elegantly as he walked slowly towards the group now pinned down. Caught flies in his web he so carefully and _obviously_ left out for them to just wander into – and they had, blind with rage and a need to just end this war. And it was ended now, there was no doubt about that.

Clear blue eyes widened, also unblinking, as Rick watched Moreau walk right past Old Man Dixon’s prone form – past the three young men in various states of confinement, with only a slight glance at Daryl when the young teen stilled tensely as if preparing for a blow – and strolled right up to _him_.

“Ya just keep coming back, don’t yeh?” Moreau finally spoke, dark black eyes shining with something that looked like malice and felt like death, but with a vitality that showed the level of violence the man wanted to unleash on everyone in that small clearing. He was very much alive, unlike Rick had thought earlier. Filled with such magik and spiritual influence that it radiated from him in waves of electric static that licked at the skin and left that taste of ozone lingering in Rick’s mouth. 

He smiled that condescending smile, bright teeth in an ashen face, eyes filled with hate and mirth and agitation, tilting his head to the side as he considered the teenager in front of him. “I have done everything I could to steer you away, to drive yeh off to the other corner of the world, but yeh do not like to list’n, do you?” Rick breathed slow and even, his wide blue eyes held hard in a defiant stare that he hoped appeared as more of a glare – and didn’t reflect the fear the beat through his chest quick and hard as war drums. His hands were grasping the arm around his neck, trying to hold some of the pressure off so he could breathe and not panic, kept his muscles tense and his body aligned with his mind – ready for action, ready to lash out. He and Daryl had been on the same wavelength in that aspect, both had been ready to break free and fight their way out, to retreat while they still could. But now Daryl’s rigid form was anything but prepared, Moreau approaching Rick throwing him so far off balance that Rick could _feel_ his fear, his worry and his terror and the outright panic that was dragging his heart down into his stomach. Out of his peripheral, Rick could see Daryl looked _sick_ with it, and for that Rick held his head a little higher and clenched his jaw tight. Because he could see now, Rick _was_ Daryl’s weakness – just as they had thought. He hadn’t just been trying to kill Rick, Moreau had been trying to break Daryl.

“Ya create such hope,” Moreau almost laughed, unlocking his fingers and gesturing with his hand, a fist clenching into the air in great showmanship and vigor. “Such life is 'n yeh, it is connected to everything – everyone ya touch. But that life has touched the young Dixon as well,” Moreau spat the name Dixon like a curse word around his curled lips, the smile becoming one that was so _angry_ Rick felt his heart skip in fright for the younger teen. “Has created such _good_ 'n him, an energy tha' could very well put a balance ta that small cursed town. To the swamps that travel all the way from Georgia ta my own backyard.” With pursed lips that cracked in amused slants, a tilt to his head again that bore those dark eyes into Rick’s own, he murmured low and taunting, “And I cannot have that.”

“Daryl was already good, all on his own,” Rick spoke with quiet defiance, strength and truth ringing clearly in his voice and in his steady gaze. “He didn’t need me for that.” 

“No,” Moreau agreed wistfully, straightening his spine and inspecting the surrounding swamp. “But yeh definitely kept it 'n him longer.” His eyes trailed back to Rick’s again, as if in a haze. “Ya see, with the toxic life tha' surrounded him, he should have been corrupted – into hate and anger and suffering – just as his father was, and his brother. His mother broke beneath th' strain, it was only a matter of time before Daryl too bent until he snapped, or succumbed ta the dark filth that stains that plot of land. But then you came along,” his eyes turned hard, accusing, and his voice turned deathly quiet. “And yeh gave him hope.”

His heart lurched at that, skipped a beat in an elation Rick should not have felt in that moment, and it must have reflected in his eyes – how the love he felt for Daryl Dixon masked all the fear and dread that Moreau was trying to instill in him. Because the living-dead man leaned forward into his space, so very close that Rick could make out the lines in his blood shot eyes, the pattern of his irises. Rick did his very best not to swallow hard with Moreau close enough to hear it. 

“You are in my way, Richard Grimes,” Moreau drawled quietly. “Yeh have been in my way for a _very_ long time, because Daryl Dixon has been in my way. The Lwa _adore_ him, and I cannot kill him for that very reason.” The mention of killing Daryl sent a dreadful chill through Rick so icy cold it was like a spike had pierced his chest. The wild forest around them seemed to agree – the trees trembled with anger, wind rushing through the leaves in torrents that protested the insinuation, something dark and sinister lacing the air in sparks of warning. Moreau watched it all in amusement, before his gaze drifted back to Rick’s with that small smirk again. “See? They are connected to him, 'n a way that I had to pray and kill and slaughter for. They lay at his feet like a hound beggin' for attention and praise. I do not know why,” he added, with very slow shakes of his head, his piercing eyes never leaving Rick’s. “But I intend ta break them of it. If I kill his will to live, he will begin ta neglect their bond. And the Lwa will abandon him to the rotting family tha' surrounds him, like poison 'n a wound – infecting everything with each terrible beat of his heart. It will kill him slowly, and then he too will break as his mother did.”

Rick couldn’t help the little tug to his lips, though he tried to fight it for as long as he could, because this _asshole_ really didn’t know Daryl at all – did he really think Daryl would fall into ruin so easily? After all that he had been through, lived through, still endured every day? The Lwa loved him for the same reason Rick loved him, because the energy that was so quiet and balanced and _real_ in Daryl was so grounded it was almost ethereal. It was solid and entrancing in how it connected to the Earth. To the trees, and the wind, and the rain, and everything that resided in the world he lived in. Every sense and priority he held like gospel was based in reality, in life, and it not only gave him the sense to see _good_ in even the most ugly and horrid things, but it also gave him the understanding to see that bad shit happened to good people and that was just the way the world was. Daryl embodied the way of the world, the way of existence, and only ever revolted against the tainted things that changed that. He was the living embodiment of balance. Of life, and everything it had to give. Rick was spellbound by Daryl Dixon, because he could see the man beneath the exterior the world painted him as – and that man was the most amazing wonder Rick would ever have the privilege to witness. 

Moreau just smiled back at him, a softness to his eyes that didn’t fit with the darkness lacing his very essence. “Yeh don’t believe me?” And this time Rick did smile, a bright look that was dark and dangerous and _alive_ all at once, because that is what was awoken in him at the thought of the younger man. He felt a strength he hadn’t ever felt in the face of death before. “Yeh think I don’t understand? That I don’t know Daryl better than you? Or his family? I know 'im better than anyone, I took from him the very things that would have dragged him down – when I saw ya weren’t going to run on yer own accord. I stripped him of his resentment and anger, of the poison I so desperately wanted ta ruin him. Cause it was the only thing that would ruin _you_. What do ya think has been plaguing ya in yer own home?” The smile dropped, the cold feeling returned like a bucket of ice water over his head, soaking into every inch of him swiftly and fully until he was drenched in terror.

What?

“That house is now a rotting corpse with maggots 'n the walls,” Moreau grinned with mirth. “Black stains smeared on every surface, soakin' like tar into every bit it can reach, infectin' what had been living there before – the playful child that haunted your halls is now angry and will lash out at whatever it can. Your _poor_ grandparents, and what of your mother? I do hope she did not follow you down here to make sure yeh were doing well.” Rick didn’t think his heart was beating. “That dark shape that yeh so very cleverly avoided, I was so impressed,” the man laughed and made another grand gesture. “Ya led it away before it could sink its claws in actual flesh, beat it through the swamp, I couldn’t believe how my CAREFULLY PLANNED SLAUGHTER was so easily trodden.” His voice was loud now, shouts and laughs blending hysterically showing the anger and madness that ran through Moreau in his hate for Rick, and Rick could feel it now – fingers like ice closing around his throat. “It just had to kill _you_ , that was all – that is all I wanted.” He sighed heavily, leveling a stare so void of emotion that Rick felt himself hold his breath. “And now I will get what I want.”

A snap of his fingers brought a shadow racing through the dark night, traveling across the ground with a speed so quick it was as if it was released from a gun barrel. It stopped at Moreau’s feet like a loyal pet, before rising in a bubbling geyser of shadowed liquid, surface morphing into different shapes that Rick had both witnessed and imagined over the years of fearing the things that hid in the forest. In his house. But had never manifested until ten short months ago, right after he lost the thing that Daryl had made him to keep him safe. 

“You took it,” Rick found himself saying, the words spilling from his loose lips that were beginning to tremble in fear. He still couldn’t say the words, but knew there had been something missing – a heavy weight around his neck that had always been there when he walked between the trees of White Oak, Georgia. The swamp that was so alive, contained all the good and wicked things in the air and trees and water and mud, had become a backdrop. The creatures that always sung together and created a soundtrack of his life, of his childhood and everything he had ever needed to know about the world, had turned to white noise. And he _knew it_. Everything blurred as he had _felt_ too much, was effected by everything at home and his own feelings – and nothing of his surroundings. Rick had became so invested in the boy he loved with every shred of his being that he didn’t notice the darkness closing in on all of them. None of them had noticed, not really. Not until it was far past fixing, once it had sunk its claws into them so deep that it was – fatal. 

“I did,” Moreau smiled again, more calmly this time with a modest bow of his head. “I did and it was not easy, but after I burned it I could always find you. _This_ , could always find you – after all, it loves ya more than _life_.” Rick felt sick, could see the sharp claws and hollow eyes and razor teeth and hunched, wrecked form of a creature made from jagged edges. Bubbling anger and bruises of pain, scars in long lashes, and a small mark off to the side of where its mouth should be. Of lines he’d traced with his hands and his tongue, of familiar dips and curves between the sharp edges that cut through the air like glass. It had felt connected to him, familiar but not in the way the thing from the trees had felt familiar when he was small. The thing in the swamp was not the creature that had stood before him now – this one had scratched the wards off the doorways and had chased him through the swamp, this had wanted to kill him. Devour him and keep him in a way that was not possible without taking his life. This thing was something else entirely, and it had been made with something from Daryl too. 

“It has been hungry for a long time,” Moreau sighed, looking at his pet sadly, turning for a short moment to the men behind him that hadn’t spoken a word – and Rick could see now it was because they _couldn’t_. From either the hands on their throats or, in Daryl’s case, across his mouth. Wide pale blue eyes more horrified and _scared_ than Rick had ever seen them, and he only had a moment to see Daryl’s panic look right back at him – wild and begging him to fight back. 

Then Moreau gave Rick his undivided attention, as satisfaction settled on his features one last time. 

“Guess it’s time to feed it.”

_“NO!”_

\--

At first Rick thought he had been the one that shouted, screamed when the black shadow bared sharp jagged teeth. A cruel and hungry smirk tearing at its features, and then it was rushing for him quicker than he could blink – Rick knew he had screamed in his head, fear blurred out to the edges and every single sense about him heightened to watch what he had always feared come true.

But it had been Daryl that had shouted, that had wrenched his way free to only make it a few inches closer before he was subdued once more – Rick couldn’t have made the broken, terrified cry of anguish that had come out of Daryl’s mouth. 

Because every sound Rick could have made rushed with the air out of his lungs as something cold and sharp and serrated tore up through his chest and out his back. The pain wasn’t immediate, his whole body went into shock at the intrusion that burned and spread as blood flooded the ripped skin and muscle and started to soak his shirt. He couldn’t breathe, he was trying – fuck Rick was trying – but every sharp gasp went nowhere, his lungs screamed at him as he drowned, and Rick could only focus on the stains of black across his vision as the thing near doubled him in half as it breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Anticipation. And then it was tearing into his chest, and the shock subsided enough for him to scream. 

There was so much blood, so much pain, and past the inhuman sounds of the creature and his own shouts of pain and fear, he could hear scuffles on the ground and it drove him to _fight back_. His hands didn’t connect with the creature at first, as if moving through cobwebs, the inky blackness parting into a stringy substance that had no physical basis. Claws tore through his skin and organs like shrapnel, scraped against his bones and _fuck_ did that hurt but he didn’t _stop fighting_. Because Daryl wasn’t stopping, Rick knew that, could feel it in his bones as much as the pain that radiated from them. So he ripped and tore at the things attacking him until he started to hit something – and it was cold, and hard as stone, and it tore at his hands and his fingernails but Rick bared bloody teeth and didn’t stop for the life of him. He wouldn’t give up, not for anything. He wasn’t going down without a fight.

It felt like hours but must have been mere seconds, minutes maybe – enough for the damage to take its toll on him. 

There were gunshots punctuating the air, inhuman screams chorusing with it, which made Rick falter in his efforts for a moment too long. The creature slipped through his fingers, fangs barred and ready to clamp down on his throat with a sharp turn of its head and a jolt forward like a snake striking out. He couldn’t have stopped it if he tried, eyes wide and everything moving so slow, only fleeting moments of regret that had no basis settling in the back of his mind as he waited for the air to be torn from his feeble grasp. He had barely been able to breathe through the pain at all by that point. 

And then it all ceased. 

Daryl’s hunting knife pierced through the back of its neck, out its gaping mouth and cutting off the shriek it had been screaming in Rick’s face. The blade was coated in layers of red and black blood, mixing and melding and smelling of ash. The whole creature faded like a wisp of smoke, dropping Rick to the ground harshly with his bloody fingers grasping at nothing. He gaped like a fish out of water, immediately putting his hands on his torn chest and stomach, and Daryl was there – dropping to his knees beside him, ripping his own shirt over his head and pressing it to the wounds as he panted for breath. His gasps were pained as well but fear is what made them hitch in high pitched sounds that rung in Rick’s ears, his strong hands pressing the fabric down on Rick’s chest and pale blue eyes blurred wet with anger and terror. He jerked around at the scream that could have only been Moreau, and then Rick was looking too – his head fallen to the side to see the wreck of a man on the ground not 10 feet from him. And he was once again staring into Rick’s eyes, dark and rageful and so full of hate Rick could feel it. Taste it like the blood in his mouth.

The hateful sneer that ripped through Moreau’s angry expression was just as jarring as the bloody hole in his chest, it matched the one in his _head_ , but the man still moved and breathed haggard breaths and glared with every last ounce of passion within him. The blood between his teeth made the once garish smile all the more menacing as he was finally able to form words. “ _Curse you_ ,” he seethed, the heat of each word felt like a physical thing, and it struck so much terror in Rick’s shock-ridden body a wave of nausea crashed over him. “Curse you and everyone here, let every dark creature tied ta me hear my prayers. No matter where ya go, how old ya grow, or far ya try ta hide – it will follow yeh like a shadow tied to yer feet. A crossing that will rip up yer life to the smallest pieces an' will allow them to be glued back ta'gether _painfully_ , only to destroy it again and again, agony and torture will be yer companions – until the Lwa see fit that yer suffering is beyond the realm of man and spirit. May the sins of man forever eat at yer soul, until there is _nothing_ left but the-”

The blade struck home again, Rick hadn’t even seen Daryl move, but his hunting knife was now buried in Moreau’s skull – cutting off his words in a mirror image to the dark shadow creature he had created from Daryl’s own darkness. Rick had always known there was some hints of hate and anger bred into the youngest Dixon, born from the toxic environment he had been raised in, but he hadn’t seen it in a long time. Not since Daryl had knocked him out cold in the gravel lot outside the Dixon house, in the passenger seat of Merle’s pick-up truck before he’d taken that lunge forward and closed all space between them. But Daryl’s face had changed, his blue eyes still bright with unshed tears – though he did not let one fall when glaring at the dead man beneath him – but his expression had hardened. As if killing the creature, and Moreau, had returned a piece of him that Rick hadn’t witnessed in a long while, a fierceness and danger that use to lie dormant beneath Daryl’s skin. Settled there once more, completing him in a way that Rick’s blurring vision tried desperately to see. 

Though he was trying to see anything at all, really. He couldn’t see Merle or Old Man Dixon or the twins or anything that had previously surrounded them, he couldn’t even see the trees. Rick needed something to grasp at – he was trying to make sense of what had _happened_ , because last he had seen none of their weapons could hurt Moreau or his men.

And that was when he noticed the other men were nowhere to be seen either.

Rick wanted to ask, wanted to know _how_ – but the blood dripping in rivets down Daryl’s arm from a wound only he could have cut told him enough. There was still some Voodou Daryl never dared to touch, and blood magik was usually one of them, Rick’s heart ripped apart in his chest at the thought of what the other had to do in order to save them. To save _him_ , if there was even a chance of that anymore. It was feeling more and more like all of their efforts would be for nothing, as a coldness he had never felt before began to sink into Rick’s skin and his bones.

He could feel mortality weighing him down heavily, melding him to the ground that was soaking up his blood as it seeped from his wounds. It was a dreadful thing, cold and real and made so many emotions rage in his chest Rick could barely make sense of what was going on around him. Someone had shot Moerau, Daryl had done _something_ to make his hunting knife a viable weapon against the creature born from his own flesh and blood – and maybe that was what could ultimately destroy it – but blood magik was something sacred and dark and not to be messed with. Daryl wouldn’t have done it under any circumstance except this one, and Rick would never forgive himself for bringing Daryl to this level. Moreau’s level. His Pa’s. Putting every ounce of his faith and soul into a force that would ask more of him in return than he could give. Rick had done that, he’d cursed Daryl for life, and the sobs that escaped his tattered lungs and throat were for _him_ and not for himself. 

They didn’t even know if it was over, the words of Moreau’s curse hung heavy in the air, echoing through the clearing and in their heads, leaving something heavy that settled into everything like tar. They did not know if they were safe, just that Moreau was dead on a farm in rural Florida, and that the first part of their war was over. Because Moreau was one of many, the men that fought them may have been illusions – but the men that had been with him all those years ago _were not._

“Rick,” and then Daryl was there, above him and shifting Rick’s shoulders so his head was in his lap, and Rick could barely breathe past the blood that coated his throat and lungs and teeth. Stuck to his lips and dribbled down his chin and neck. Each struggle for air was agony, and he could tell there were other people around him but his vision was blurring out at the edges. “ _Rick lookit me,_ ” Daryl pleaded, and Rick knew his wide blue eyes had been looking all around – searching for something to grasp on to that would make everything make sense, and he found it in Daryl’s pale blue eyes. Clear as the summer sky above the trees, angry and scared and wet in that moment and full of such emotion Rick wanted to chase it all away like he’d _always_ done. He couldn’t leave Daryl to this, to live with this – in the shattered remains of whatever was left now that Moreau was dead and his Pa would once again reign the sprawling swamps. 

Rough, calloused fingers were in his hair, touching his face, shaking and lost and Rick found one and held on as tight as he could, the pain making his muscles seize up and probably squeeze too tight. There was fear settled so deep in those pale blue eyes that Rick felt the need to stare back with as much reassurance as he could, because that fear could only mean that Rick was beyond saving and Daryl didn’t know what to do. And that hurt more than Rick could say, though the pain that now wracked through his chest had nothing to do with the torn and bleeding skin. He had made Daryl _promise_ that he would be careful, look after himself so he could always come back to Rick in one piece, but Rick hadn’t known he should’ve done the same. And he was so _sorry_ in that moment, and his trembling lips tried so damn hard to say it, force the words out, but he barely could. So sorry, so afraid to die because Daryl was going to be left all alone in that dark swamp, and he’d swore to himself he would never be one to cause Daryl that kind of pain.

“S-So sorry,” he finally got out, and even the words sounded torn as they slipped past his lips, each syllable hitting Daryl harder until his features were a scrunched up mess and tears were leaking down his face.

“No,” he sobbed, “no don’cha say that!” and Daryl was angry, hurt – so fucking hurt – and Rick wanted to cry with him because something like dread was settling into his bones. He wouldn’t want to die anywhere else than in Daryl’s arms but not like this, and he could barely breathe everything hurt so much but the feeling of Daryl curling so far over he rested his forehead against Rick’s sweat-soaked curls was so much like coming home. The one spark of warmth in the over-whelming cold that was taking over his limbs, his chest, all the way to his fingertips. He couldn’t die, he wouldn’t leave Daryl all alone, not like this.

“S’il vous plaît ne le prenez pas de moi,” Daryl whispered, pressed so close Rick could feel the words spoken against his skin. “Je vais vous donner quoi que ce soit. _S’il vous plait_.” He could fathom a guess what Daryl was saying, praying – to whoever might be listening – and in that moment Rick began to pray too. To God, to the Lwa, to not let him leave Daryl alone like this. This wonderful, beautiful man that clutched on to Rick like a lifeline did not deserve this. Rick would do anything – give everything – so that Daryl could live out the life Rick so desperately wanted for him. He would beg and plead if that’s what it took, just please – _please, don’t do this to him. He gives and loves more than I ever could, than anyone ever could, hasn’t he suffered enough? Please, if you love him as much as I do, do not let him hurt like this anymore. Don’t ruin the only beautiful thing to ever come out of that cursed place._ It was the only time Rick had ever seen Daryl cry, and it would be the only time he ever would. 

His world started to fade around him, the pain so intense it was hard to grasp onto anything. So Rick held on to Daryl, as tightly as he could, bloodied nails digging into skin and cloth alike, and doing everything in his power to hold on to the realm of the living – no matter the agony it unleashed on him. He would be torn from Daryl’s arms kicking and screaming if it came to that, his teeth grinding he had them clutched so tight, and he curled further into Daryl despite the rips in his skin screaming in protest. He wanted to tell Daryl he loved him, one last time, but he could only muster the strength to open his eyes again and see the way the wetness on his face outlined the planes of his cheeks and jaw. They highlighted the blue color in his eyes, the regret and sorrow and defeat that flooded them so intensely – and he hoped Daryl could see how much Rick loved him. It was the last thought he had before his world faded from his grasp, and only the wretched scream of Daryl calling his name rung in his ears.

And then all that was left was black.

\--

Rick didn’t expect to wake up.

Sound came back to him first, the familiar muffled noise of the wind in the trees and the swamp making itself known in the early morning outside the Dixon house. The feeling of the warm tin room as the Georgia sunshine beat down on it soaked into Rick’s skin, he could practically see the sunlight filtering through the thread-bare fabric coving Daryl’s bedroom window. Could see every bit of it without even opening his eyes, the book shelves, the drawings, the bits and pieces of the forest on the walls and hanging from the ceiling all in a warm orange hue. Could smell the traces of incense and musk and cigarette smoke. Rick knew without a doubt that he was lying on the mattress in Daryl’s room, the soft worn fabric of cheap sheets and hand-me-down blankets, well used pillows, every lump and broken spring and dip that matched the dips and angles of Daryl’s body. He had only thought the morning before that lying there with Daryl in his arms was what Heaven must be like.

If his Heaven was forever lying in Daryl Dixon’s bed, then Rick would find very little to complain about for the rest of his eternity. 

Except this couldn’t be Heaven, because he was all alone. And he still hurt and ached and could feel the faint tremors of his muscles spasm-ing with residual effects of shock. Could feel them tense and retract in preparation for sharp claws and jagged teeth to sink in and tear the flesh away from his bones, but nothing ever came. Because he was safe, in Daryl’s bedroom, and he didn’t need to open his eyes to know that the other side of the bed was empty – and had been for the entire time Rick had been lying there. 

It took more effort than Rick wanted to admit to open his eyes, to take in the familiar surroundings that helped loosen the vice in his chest and let him breathe a little easier. Until they landed on the rumpled sheets and pillows that had bracketed him to the wall so he didn’t roll over and injure himself further, though he reached for them to prove to himself that Daryl had indeed left him there alone in his room. They were cold, or as cold as they could get in the springtime in Georgia, and that made Rick frown a little. What had Daryl been doing, if not resting after the night they had?

If that night had even been real.

Rick legitimately spent a few minutes contemplating that the day before had never even happened, and that Daryl wasn’t there with him because he was still embarrassed about shoving him away when they were fooling around his first night back in White Oak. But it only took him shifting to his elbows and feeling the pull of freshly grown skin on his chest to confirm that it all _had_ happened, and Rick needed to find Daryl and figure out what happened after. Because he should be dead, and Rick was scared of what Daryl had done to change that.

His shirt was not the one he’d worn the night before, and it was a button down, so Rick sat up and braced himself against the wall before he started to unbutton the closures – so he could see his chest. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until let it out shakily, fingertips grazing over the skin of his chest that wasn’t marred in the slightest. It tugged tenderly in certain places, where the skin had been ripped apart and bleeding not hours before, but the skin was healed and barely discolored to show where the damage had been. It would fade fast, Rick had seen it happen countless times on Daryl – which always baffled him. The boy was covered in a variety of marks and scars, but the ones created in rituals always healed without even a blemish to remind where they’d been. And Rick was grateful, to not have permanent memories etched into his skin to mirror the nightmares he would have for the rest of his life, but he was scared to death what the consequences were going to be this time. Moreau’s words still echoed in his head hauntingly, and all Rick wanted to do in that moment was find Daryl and get everything set straight. Before he lost his damn mind in worry.

Getting to his feet took a lot of effort, but once he stood and the dizzy spell had passed, Rick realized how _rejuvenated_ he felt. More than he should feel – and he knew he had Daryl to thank for that. He tugged back on his boots, and refastened the buttons on his shirt, contemplating changing but not able to find his bags for some reason. Maybe Daryl had moved them? He shook his head, tousling his curls a bit into something that didn’t resemble a mess from the sheets and pillows, and made his way through the dark hallways of the Dixon house. Daryl wasn’t in the living room, or the kitchen, so without even thinking about it Rick stepped out onto the porch and realized that no one was there. Old Man Dixon’s car was gone, so was the twins’, and Merle’s rusted red pick-up. Everyone had gone – and it was eerily quiet. Something cold wrapped around his heart, his whole body tensing and feeling that something wasn’t right. 

That was when he saw Daryl, out further down the lot where they burned their trash, and he had a fire going. He was in loose cargo pants that were tied tight to his feet, showing he’d been out and about and trudging through the swamp for awhile, and a black t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, already soaked with sweat – he’d been doing something for hours it looked like. His tan arms were tense with strain, though he stood relaxed and his hands in his pockets, watching the fire intently and not looking back at Rick. Though he knew the redneck must have heard him. Rick swallowed hard, trying to shake the uneasy feeling, and made his way over to the other man, not bothering to be quiet in the early morning light.

“Where is everyone?” Rick asked as he approached, coming to a stop beside the youngest Dixon and seeing what he’d been staring at in the fire. There were dozens of little leather bags, stones with drawings on them, beads and a few dolls, all succumbing to the flames as they split and melted in the intense heat. They were haunting to look at, and suddenly Rick couldn’t look away either. “What are those?” he found himself asking, without meaning to – since Daryl had been so quiet. 

“Hex bags,” Daryl answered quietly, mumbling and still not looking at Rick. “’couple curs’d objects, found ‘em all ov’r the place. ‘n the lot, ‘n yer grandparent’s house, ‘n the swamp. Fo’nd ‘em ‘n yer car too, drov’ it ov’r to yer ganma’s place wit’ yer stuff.”

“What?” Rick stalled, suddenly very distracted from the burning items in the fire pit. His blue eyes snapped over to Daryl, who hadn’t looked away from the flames at all. “What’re ya talking about?” A beat of silence passed between them, and Rick’s heart started to pick up with each moment Daryl didn’t say anything. The silence had pressed too harshly on them, with only the crackling of the fire and ash as a backdrop, fraying at his nerves as he waited for the younger man to even _twitch_. Was he even breathing? “Daryl, tell me what’s goin’ on – I’m really confused here.”

“I’m not,” Daryl muttered, quiet but the words couldn’t have been mistaken for anything else. “Fer the first time ‘n a few years, I think.” He sighed, like this was the last thing he wanted to be doing, and Rick’s heart was about to beat out of his damn chest, because _what?_

“Explain,” Rick demanded, just as quiet – but angry, and so fucking scared. Daryl wasn’t acting like himself, like he was holding on to something, keeping it very close to his chest and closed off. And Daryl didn’t _close off_ from Rick, not from him. They always had this unspoken connection between them, they understood each other, but Rick couldn’t see Daryl through this fog. He was pushing Rick away, purposefully not looking at him, and Rick didn’t like it one bit. Daryl was hiding something. What the hell had he _done?_

Daryl glanced at Rick for only a moment, and the look was so indifferent, so detached it was as if he was looking at any other piece of the lot, and Rick did his very best to not let the blow that landed to his chest show on his face. Daryl was hiding shit, so could Rick. He kept his face carefully controlled, only the anger and confusion slipping through the cracks of his careful composure. But Daryl looked away just as casual, took in the trees and the swamp and the altar to their right with the same disconnected air, and it was scaring Rick _so damn much._ “It’s like,” Daryl began, heaving a sigh and almost looking through all the objects around them, “like there’s been this – blindf’ld ov’r my eyes, all colorf’l an’ shit, makin’ everythin’ look so much bett’r than it is. ‘Cause really it’s all shit here, every damn piece of it.” He chewed on his lip, and Rick held his breath. “Whatev’r it was it’s gone now, m’chest feels empty – an’ it sucks but it feels _real_ , thinkin’ it’s the only real thin’ I’ve felt ‘n a long time.” And when he looked back at Rick, his pale blue eyes looked dead and defeated, something hostile simmering beneath the surface but the man was too drained to let it out, and Rick felt his heart sink to his stomach. “Think it gav’ back whatev’r it took from me, that thing tha’ was huntin’ you.”

Rick forced himself to breathe, to look at his feet and move his limbs so he knew they were still fucking working. Had to swallow back the lump in his throat so he could _speak_ , though the words were a jumbled mess on his tongue. He didn’t know what any of this _meant_ , just that Daryl was different – and he was talking like it was permanent. “So, what does that mean?” he chose his words carefully, though there was a part of Rick that wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

God did he hate when he was right.

“Means I was cursed too,” Daryl said with the same detached tone, spoken so carefully Rick _knew_ Daryl was still holding something back, and it only took another moment of seeing how forcibly Daryl was holding himself for him to realize Daryl was trying not to hurt _him_. And that made a whole new level of dread settle in his bones, because _fuck no_. “Made me feel things that weren’t really there-”

“Bullshit,” Rick growled, but even as he glared and his clear blue eyes never once blinked as they bore into Daryl’s, he couldn’t see _one trace_ of the boy who had loved him so dearly 24 hours prior. But he remembered seeing him the night before, when Rick was dying on the ground outside the farmhouse in Florida, “you felt somethang last night, I know you did. I _saw_ it Daryl so don’t _tell me_ none of it ain’t true cause I know you’re _lying to me!_ ”

“Ain’t lyin’,” Daryl snapped.

“Yer lying through yer fucking teeth, Daryl Dixon,” Rick seethed, rage bubbling up and threatening to simmer over, his whole form starting to shake. “This started _long_ before I lost my damn thang you made me, that night of Ryan’s ritual, you – you _kissed me back._ ”

“I _push’d ya back_ ,” Daryl yelled, anger now twisting his features and his eyes narrowing into slits. “How many _fuckin’ times_ did I have ta push ya back, Rick!? I didn’ wan’ ya there! Anywher’ near me! Ya couldn’ take a fuckin’ HINT-“

“Ya kept doin’ that because you CARED TOO MUCH Daryl,” Rick screamed back, the two getting in each other’s faces and Rick could feel the careful line of violence beginning to tip, but he just didn’t _believe_ Daryl in that moment. His heart was breaking in his chest at the thought that none of it –

No, it had been real, it _had_.

“And I was too damn _stupid_ to listen to ya,” Rick admitted, knowing his voice was one strong spike of emotion away from cracking but trying to hold on to his composure as much as he could. “But don’t you tell me that you didn’t feel anything, not when we-“

“It wasn’ real, Rick,” Daryl told him, and only the smallest amount of regret and apology stained those pale blue eyes. It was like a gunshot to the chest, how much that hit him, because Daryl _did_ care too damn much – and he’d tried to make this as painless as possible and Rick had fucked it up again. But he couldn’t, _FUCK_ he didn’t _understand._

“This is bullshit,” Rick said with a shake to his head, ignoring the sting to his eyes, Daryl was still hiding something from him. And if he thought Rick couldn’t see it he had another fucking thing coming. “I know yer lying Daryl, I know it. You can’t fucking fool me, I _know_ you-“

“No you don’t,” Daryl told him, clear and truthful, so calm and grounded that it tore at Rick’s heart more than any angry words he could’ve spat at him. Because this was Daryl speaking honestly, something he did as easily as breathing, and every word held the terrible force of a hurricane. “You never did. Moreau made sure’a that.”

And Rick’s whole world fell apart.

Ripped out from under him and torn to the smallest shreds, all he could do was _stare_ at Daryl next to the dying fire, feeling like a void had opened up and swallowed him whole. And he can’t even _cry_ – he could _see_ Daryl but his clear blue eyes just looked right through him, his whole body burning up beneath the Georgia sun. Until he couldn’t feel anything, his mind taking him so far away from his body that he couldn’t even find it in himself to _care_ how he was still alive after the night before. How Moreau had wanted him dead to get at Daryl, how the man had still _won_ even though he was dead. Everything felt so _wrong_ , but so real – and in that moment he understood what Daryl meant. This felt more real than anything had in a long time.

“So that’s it,” Rick asked, hollow and words so calm they shook. Daryl just continued to look at him, didn’t even tell him to go home, just gave him a glance that was so fucking – _condescending_ in that moment, with traces of pity, that Rick wanted to spit fire. Rick couldn’t fucking be there anymore, but he couldn’t just let it _go_ either. This was all just a bad dream, a nightmare created by the creature and Moreau. He hadn’t died and gone to Heaven the night before, he’d died and woken up in his own personal Hell. 

“You –“ Rick could barely _speak_ he was so mad, but he tried to fight it, knew he wasn’t letting this go without sinking his teeth into it and _tearing_. Daryl was going to give him something besides that fucking detached stare, to prove it was real. “You _really_ think that’s all it’ll take to make me-“

“I can giv’ ya a damn reason if ya want,” Daryl sneered, shoulders tensing up and hunching defensively, and suddenly that horrible feeling dropped into Rick’s stomach at the disgust that was settled open and real on Daryl’s face. And then the dam broke, and everything was unleashed.

“You fucking asshole,” Rick swore through clenched teeth, the tears blurring his eyes as they came hot and fast. “Did – did you ever even _think_ it couldn’ be real?” Could he have spared the pain in his chest that hurt so much _worse_ than that fucking demon ripping it to shreds. He’d prayed that Daryl wouldn’t have to be left alone in the world like this, and now every hope that Rick had had for that wonderful, beautiful man was gone because _he never even existed?_

“Wouldn’ have fuckin’ mattr’d, you wouldn’ leave me the hell alone even when I ask’d ya to – screame’d at ya, ya want me screamin’ now Rick?” Daryl’s voice was rising as the frustration he must have been feeling throughout the entire conversation came to a boiling point. “Will tha’ make ya fuckin’ leave, _finally_ , aft’r years of ya always buzzin’ ‘round and nev’r takin’ a fuckin’ _hint_. I said I don’ wan’cha here, how many fuckin’ times do I need ta SAY IT!?”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Rick seethed, hurt and anger etched into every tense line of his body, thrumming through his limbs and his blood and leaking from his eyes. “You can lie all you damn want but you cared once Daryl, you gave a shit what happened to your family, to me, to this town-“

“It can burn to the _fuckin’ ground_ fer all I care.” And Rick believed him.

He didn’t even say goodbye, the snarl on Daryl’s face too much for him to look at one second longer. He turned and walked away before he fucking punched the youngest Dixon in his stupid, perfect face, and all he could hear was Daryl rubbing salt in the wound as he screamed at Rick’s retreating form – “YA ACTUALLY GONNA STAY AWAY THIS TIME? GO BACK TA YER PALACE CITY BOY!” Rick’s fists started to shake he was holding them so damn tight. He wanted to make Daryl _bleed_ and _hurt_ as much as Rick was hurting in that moment, because he felt like there was a damn knife in his sternum, he didn’t – Christ he didn’t but he _wanted to._ “TIRED OF YER DAMN FACE!”

“Well don’t worry,” Rick laughed, cold and only giving Daryl once more glance as he got to the tree line. “You’ll never see it again.”

“Best news I heard all week,” Daryl sneered from where he stood, and the glares they sent each other were heated, deadly, the opposite of every look they had ever shared. The ones Rick had locked with him in the back of the pick-up truck the night before. Rick would have died for Daryl Dixon, he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t twelve hours ago, but the man he loved was gone. Dead. Leaving a shell of a man standing in the Dixon family lot, all defensive lines and hostile stance, just a shadow of his Old man – and Rick’s anger ebbed to this horrible sinking feeling of mourning. Feeling with such intensity the loss of the only love he’d ever felt so deep in his bones he thought it would never end. He couldn’t explain the sorrow he felt in that moment, burrowing deep in his gut and rotting everything from the inside out until he thought he would die from it on the spot, right there by the treeline. It spread in tendrils through his limbs, paralyzing, though all he wanted to do was _run_. He knew it reflected in his eyes, blurring as he soaked in the sight of the man who was no longer his. Apparently – he never had been.

Rick had wanted to spend his life with Daryl Dixon, and now it was scattered among the ashes at Daryl’s feet in that damn gravel lot. 

It was that thought that made him turn and run. Deep into the forest that no longer held any semblance of peace or hope for him. A cavern of sorrowful memories that burned and tore at his insides. He couldn’t _stand it_ as he moved as fast as his feet would carry him. Far away from the Dixon lot and Daryl Dixon, swearing that he would never come back for as long as he lived.

It had all been a lie, a fucking ruse that Moreau had cursed them with, and that thought drove him forward as he got to his grandparent’s estate. Made him climb into his car to find the keys already in the ignition, and peel out of the gravel drive and out onto the interstate without even looking back. He didn’t let one tear fall until he had left the coastal plain entirely, the Atlanta skyline appearing in the distance snapping something inside him like a coil. And his whole world crashed down around him. 

Rick never belonged to White Oak, Georgia. 

Just like Daryl Dixon had never been his marvel to witness. 

\--

\--

He’d watched Rick disappear into the swamp, his figure blending in with the leaves and trees so seamlessly, like the forest was trying to conceal him from Daryl’s gaze. He had seen the look on Rick’s face. The sorrow and pain in his clear blues eyes, the color of the darkest parts of a sunrise before the sun peaked above the trees, the color of the ocean he had seen when he’d been down in Florida and had witnessed the vast expanse for the very first time. But even the Atlantic Ocean couldn’t compare to the depths of Rick Grimes’ eyes, and it took every bit of Daryl’s personal determination to hold strong, to not give an _inch_ as Rick watched him from the tree-line. He held on to every shred of darkness and anger that he had called from somewhere deep inside himself, that he’d locked away and hoped to never unleash – especially on Rick – until those dark curls and tear-filled blue eyes were out of sight.

And then Daryl couldn’t breathe.

His chest was so tight it was as if someone was crushing his lungs. The pain was so intense, the sorrow so _suffocating_ that he gasped for breath, and when the smallest bit of air slipped into his lungs, every exhale he forced out released the most heart-wrenching sob. Daryl had never really cried. Only the silent tears from when he had hit Rick all those years ago, when he’d been fevered and delirious the night on the platform. Not until the night before – when Daryl had held the dying man in arms and he’d begged the Lwa to save him. If only so Daryl could save Rick from himself. Rick had never belonged there, he should have been home – safe, in his bed – but Daryl had been so damn _selfish_. He had called him and Rick had driven all night for _him_. He shouldn’t have been there, and he almost died because of it. 

The Lwa had listened, and granted him the power to stitch Rick back together and heal him, they had not let his soul escape his body until Daryl could finish his work. And it was blood magik he would have never touched, would be paying back for the rest of his life. But it was worth every bit of suffering he would have to endure – just knowing Rick was alive, somewhere, breathing and living and growing older.

Even without him.

Tears flooded hot and fast and trailed down his face as Daryl stumbled backwards, only collapsing when his spine hit the support beams to the altar’s platform, and he could not breathe – could not hold on to the separation of air and sobs and choking himself on the high-pitched sounds that tore at his chest and lungs. He was fucking hyperventilating in his own backyard, and the tears and sobs would not cease. His ass hit the ground and he doubled over in an effort to _breathe_ , but it was ripped from him mercilessly.

Rick would hate him forever now, Daryl had made fucking sure of that, and that was fine – it was what he wanted. The hex bags had been real, the cursed objects had been everywhere and that fucking _scared_ Daryl to no end – how close they’d gotten to Rick. Moreau’s curse had not just been the rambling of a madman, every dark spirit had heard him and would have been gunning for Rick’s blood. Daryl had to put Rick as far away as he could get from the swamps of White Oak, from the dangers that lurked there, so he had made up a curse of his own. It wasn’t real, the thing he had described to Rick. The only thing that could take away your free will was if someone had a hold of your soul – made you into a zombie – and no one had gotten to Daryl like that. Every moment Rick and Daryl had shared together had been so real it would be seared into his mind forever. He would be the only one to remember it now, if his words had worked on Rick as much as it appeared they did.

He was gone. Rick was gone, and he was never coming back.

And Daryl couldn’t stop _crying._

He had destroyed the only thing that had ever kept him going, the one thing that kept him _good_ and made him feel worth something in the dark, cursed swamp surrounding his home. Had given him hope that he’d get away from here one day, that he could have a future with someone who _loved_ him. Because _fuck_ did Daryl love Rick, with every beat of his breaking heart did he love him.

But now Rick would be safe from him, from the curse that had been unleashed on all of them. Now he could grow up, and live, and find love again – and return to the life he was meant to have before he’d gotten lost in the woods.

A life void of Daryl Dixon, the one person in the world who loved him enough to let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((End of Part I))
> 
> \--
> 
> Part 2, Southern Discomfort: Possessed, will begin on August 31st, 2016.


End file.
